


The Bride

by Flickering



Category: Outlast (Video Games), The Cabin in the Woods (2011)
Genre: Anal Sex, Attempted Sexual Assault, Dubious Consent, Feminization, Insidious Metamorphosis, Inspired by reapersun's incredible art, M/M, More horror than comedy but it has its moments, Murder, Not between Waylon and Eddie, This is a romp you all, cabin in the woods au, horror/comedy, kind of?, maybe? - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-28
Updated: 2020-11-01
Packaged: 2021-03-09 03:02:02
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 28,261
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27237736
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Flickering/pseuds/Flickering
Summary: When Waylon’s plans with his friends backfire and the only solution for their final weekend of college fun is a trip to a cabin in the woods with Jeremy-fucking-Blaire, Waylon had half a mind to bail. But these were his friends, and this was supposed to be their time together, Jeremy or not. So what if the place was straight out of a horror game. So what if the basement was filled with creepy antiques that made him feel uneasy and uncomfortably excited. He was committed. He was going to make the most of it.He just hadn’t anticipated the murder. The death. The man covered in blood with a knife and dressed as a horrible groom.And he definitely hadn’t anticipated the insidious pull the man had on him, like Waylon was hearing dark wedding bells and they rang all for him.Heavily inspired by reapersun’s Cabin in the Woods AU comic.
Relationships: Eddie Gluskin/Waylon Park
Comments: 140
Kudos: 437





	1. The Harbinger

**Author's Note:**

  * For [reapersun](https://archiveofourown.org/users/reapersun/gifts).



> Hello everyone! Here's a little project I've been working on for a bit that was heavily inspired by [reapersun's](https://twitter.com/reapersun_art) incredible Cabin in the Woods AU Comic (which you can read [here](https://www.pillowfort.social/posts/410918), though be warned it's NSFW toward the end). With permission I've been very excited to share this, and what better time than Halloween week! There will be a chapter posted every day until completion with the big, fun chapter on Halloween day ;]
> 
> As is pretty typical for Outlast stories, there are problematic elements present which are indicated by the tags. Please read responsibly.
> 
> That being said, let's get started. I hope you enjoy!

Waylon simmered from his position wedged with the luggage in the trunk of Jeremy Blaire's SUV as he had for the last hour and a half.

This wasn't where he wanted to be. Granted he didn't so much care about his position with the luggage. There was actually a surprising amount of room back here, and it helped that he was small and didn't have to share the space with Lisa, Miles, or Chris – thank God. But Jeremy was a shitty driver and took the turns hard enough that Waylon was sure he was doing it on purpose since it often causing something back here to smack him in the face. Waylon was sure he’d heard a snicker from the driver's seat a time or two.

No, he didn't want to be here because he didn't want to be anywhere near Jeremy, and it was eating him alive. This trip was supposed to be fun for him and _his_ friends. Some final time together before the end of college and the dreaded beginning of their adult lives. It had been Lisa’s idea, but he’d been in charge of making it happen. He'd planned this out for _weeks_ , coordinating everything, doing the research, making the plans.

And because his bank accounts had been locked because some dipshit out in the world had somehow stolen his information, the group had had to come up with something new at the last minute. They'd all cleared their schedules and graduation was in a month. This was the last time they'd all be able to have real quality time together and they couldn't postpone or wait for Waylon's financial situation to clear up.

Waylon couldn't help but think how convenient it was that Jeremy-fucking-Blaire had saved the day when Lisa had been drunk-venting to him. Like he'd _planned_ it.

So instead of partying at the beach with his friends one final time before graduation, he was trapped in the SUV with his friends and the one bastard he _least_ wanted to be around while they were on their way deep into the mountains to stay the weekend at a shitty cabin in the woods.

"A cabin in the woods?" he'd asked Lisa incredulously when she’d broken the news. "Really?"

"Hey, the guys and I are broke, and I don't exactly see you coming up with any other ideas," she'd said. "Besides, it's going to be fun. Just the five of us out there. He says there's even a lake."

"I'd be more okay with it if Jeremy didn't come."

"He’s footing the bill, so beggars can’t be choosers,” Lisa had huffed. “What is your problem with him anyway?"

She'd asked but even as he'd started to explain she'd ignored him to talk about how much fun this was going to be, how nice Jeremy was to offer and that he was even going to bring a keg for them all to share. It became apparent that she didn't actually want to listen to all the ways Jeremy had made Waylon's life hell the last two years as he’d taken every chance available to bully him. How he was a racist and sexist _prick_ who only used people, just like he was somehow going to use Lisa.

Frankly, Waylon wasn't even sure why he was here now at all when he didn't want to be, even if his friends were here too. It was hard not to feel sore that all of his hard work had been upended and no one else had really pitched in to help until Jeremy had flown in to save the day. But on top of that, the others seemed to be having a great time anyway. Lisa sat in the passenger's seat laughing at Jeremy's dumb jokes and Miles snored on Chris's shoulder where they were both peacefully sleeping the trip away in the back seat.

And then there was Waylon back here like an afterthought with all the crap they were bringing. Granted, it had been his choice. The last thing he'd wanted to do was get trapped in the back with Miles and Chris with no space to move since he'd be allotted a sliver of the seat given Chris's girth and Mile's stature.

He was pretty sure they'd all forgotten about him fifteen minutes into the drive, and by that point he was _fine_ with it, content to angrily scroll through various social medias and hammer through dailies on his mobile games. It had eaten up a solid chunk of time, but now he was bored and simmering again.

It had been a long time since he'd done it, and he'd have only done it _because_ he was alone and practically buried in the luggage where no one could see, but like this he couldn't stop himself. He didn't even bother to.

Waylon opened up Pinterest and accessed one of his secret boards and felt his stress begin to flow away as lace and veils and elaborate white dresses filled his screen and tantalized his mind. Perhaps he was a bit fucked up – well maybe a lot fucked up – but since the first time he'd seen them on a TV show his mom had been watching when he was a kid, he'd been obsessed. He couldn’t help it.

It was a guilty pleasure, but Waylon loved looking at wedding dresses. And worse than that, he liked to imagine what it might be like to _be_ one of those beautiful, perfect brides.

It was weird and he knew it because he was a guy and honestly? He liked being a guy. He liked his shape and his strength and his dick, he liked getting into stupid shit and making obnoxious jokes when he felt like it. He liked sports and gaming, and while he was still considered small for a guy, his size made him feel strong and fast. That, and he liked deep pockets in his pants too.

But there was always something about looking at wedding dresses, at beautiful brides clad in white on their wedding day that always pulled at some deep-seated femininity within him. When he was younger he used to tell himself that it was all because they were pretty and the women in the dresses were beautiful. He was a guy; he was _supposed_ to like that sort of thing. It was when he was a teenager, however, when his hormones had been raging and he'd been confused about himself and his sexuality that he'd had a dream which had embarrassed him and changed his life.

In it, he was in some dark place, somewhere with large cubes and glass and horrible eyes peering out of the darkness, but that wasn’t what dominated his attention. He dreamed that, in the center of it all, practically glowing and radiant, _he_ was there.

And he was wearing a dress of white.

The way he'd looked ... it was unlike anything he'd ever seen before. Unlike anything he’d ever imagined himself like before either. He was older, _blond_ , and weirdly mature as he stood calmly looking back at his dreaming self with delicate flowers on his crown. The man in the gown he saw was beautiful and coy. Breathtaking with a sensual look in his eyes and a mysterious, dangerous smirk on his lips. The most incredible bride he’d ever seen.

But he hadn't been alone.

There had been someone behind him, a man. Not some kid or teenager or immature college student, but a _man_ whose presence sent something molten and hot through Waylon's body. That man was so much _bigger_ than he was, and he stood like a guardian behind him. Dark. Protective. Menacing. Well-dressed. It was so _obvious_ they were a pair. Bound together and meant to be. A bride and his—

Waylon had woken up from that dream harder and more aroused than he'd ever been in his life. It had been a transformative experience, to say the least, where he'd given some serious thought to the possibility that he was gay and probably a kinky fucker. He'd never told that dream to anyone, not even when it crept up on him every year like clockwork, sinister, sexy, beautiful. He never saw much except himself, but he could _feel_ that man behind him. Close and intimate. Fingers almost brushing his bare shoulders reverently.

Waiting.

Waylon had ignored it at first, but over the years he'd come to accept that it was his favorite and most private fantasy, and ever since, he'd learned that he enjoyed looking at brides and wedding dresses and secretly envision a wedding for himself. No one knew about it, not even Lisa and they'd been thick as thieves since freshman year until recently. And with how busy and great college had been for him, Waylon hadn't really had the time or need to indulge. Not like he did now.

After a while he'd pinned a few designs and images that were interesting before staring out the window. He knew it was stupid, and frankly, all the dresses he saw were just ... not him. Lovely sure, but just not him – not that he'd ever _actually_ wear one or have a wedding, even if he found his perfect dress. But still, the exercise calmed him and made him forget about the shitty situation he was in, and soon he just watched the world pass them by. The trees grew thicker and green. The sky was getting overcast and dark. The forecast when they'd left had promised they wouldn't have to deal with anything like rain all weekend, just dense clouds, but who trusted the weather anyway?

The building gloom made his thoughts skirt darker avenues, though pleasant ones. The ambiance outside reminded him of a horror game he was currently playing through and was another reason he didn't want to be here because he could be playing the game _now_. He hadn't even finished it yet, but it was good and fun and everything he'd been craving recently. Overrun asylum. A crazy machine that drove people insane. A play style that wouldn’t let you do anything except run and hide and look for batteries for a camera so he could see in the dark long enough to survive the crazies out to kill him. It was fun and exciting, fresh, and he was excited to keep going and beat the game. Add it to the list of ones he’d already completed.

Other guys liked shooters, but he was a horror kind of guy. The games were creepy and heart-stopping, and it always made a deep part of him rise with attention and satisfaction. They were exquisite, and the characters in some were also drool-worthy and problematic. But they were horror games for a reason. And who didn't like the hot crazies?

Pain snapped across his brow as the SUV suddenly jolted off the road and a belt of some kind lashed at him. Waylon scowled as he sat up.

"What the hell? Some of us aren't exactly buckled in, asshole!"

"It's either gas now or huffing it," Jeremy said remorselessly. "Besides, it was your idea to camp out back there. You could've been in a real seat."

"Yeah," Miles said, slowly rousing from his nap to look around. "We could've cuddled, Way."

"It would've been a cute picture," Lisa added.

"I hate you all," Waylon grumbled. But now that he was up and aware, he saw that Jeremy was guiding them into some old gas station Waylon was half-sure was abandoned. Still, now that they were here, he wasn't going to miss the chance to stretch his legs, and the moment Jeremy parked, he opened the hatch.

He all but threw himself out of the trunk and _did not care_ that half of everyone else's junk fell out at the same time. Lisa shouted in displeasure and Jeremy glowered before checking to make sure the keg hadn't fallen out before giving him the finger, which Waylon was vindictively pleased about. Either way it wasn't his problem, not when he could stretch his legs and get a break from the tension headache that was trying to grow in his skull.

Waylon took a few steps away before he looked around at the old-time gas pump, the rundown station, and the half-dead foliage all around them.

"You couldn't have just gotten gas out on the main road?" he asked. "Are you wanting us to get kidnapped and eaten by crazy hicks?"

"It was the only place for the last thirty miles," Lisa said, jumping to Jeremy's defense, complete with one of her formidable glares. "It was this or hitchhiking to the cabin. Which you're more than welcome to do."

"Hey, why the arguing?" Miles asked brightly as he took his own survey of the land. "It's not so bad here. A little ... rough, I guess, but let's call it rustic charm."

“Way to use that journalism degree,” Lisa said.

"Is anyone even here?" Chris asked.

"Hello?" Jeremy started shouting. "Hey, we need to get some gas and preferably _not_ be killed like our friend here thinks you want to do to us!" He smirked at Waylon. "There, now they know we don't want to die."

"God, I hate you so much," Waylon said before he shoved his hands in his pockets and began walking toward the station. The lights were out and the closed sign was on the door, but he could also smell what he was sure was a fresh hotdog being cooked somewhere nearby. He pounded on the door. "Hello? I know someone's here. You're making me hungry."

"You might as well come back here and take a dog," a voice called. "Might be the last good meal you get."

Bewildered, Waylon followed the voice until he'd rounded the corner to the back. There was a small grill set up, and a guy who couldn't have been much older than they were sitting low in an old, busted lawn chair watching a few hotdogs sizzle. Stubbled hair covered his scalp and on a dirty, almost unreadable patch on his overalls read the name Billy.

He looked at Waylon, unimpressed, before reaching for a bottle and spitting in it.

"Uh, listen, we're just here for gas—"

"Be better if you didn't," the attendant said without moving an inch except to set his bottle back down. "Let me guess. You're going up there to the old Buckner place."

"Is that on Tillerman Road?" Jeremy asked as he strolled around with Lisa. "We're going to a cabin up there."

"You don't want to go up there," the kid said as he reached for a hotdog with a dirty fork to put on a crushed hotdog bun. "Every year someone goes up to that place. Don't ever see them come back down again."

"Well, no offense, but it's not like you're out here watching or anything," Miles said as he peered over Waylon's shoulder. "You're back here right now, after all. Can't even see the road. You probably just missed them leaving."

"Nope," Billy said with a shake of his head before he squirted enough ketchup that Waylon couldn't even see the hotdog anymore. It made his stomach roll and he resisted the urge to grimace, disgusted. "They never came down."

"Listen, creep," Jeremy said. "We're just here for gas, and that's it. You got any of that here, or are you just wasting our time?"

“What I think he means is,” Lisa said diplomatically. “We’ve been on the road for a while and we’re kind of eager to get to the cabin. Could you sell us some gas?”

The attendant stared at them as he took a slow bite of his hotdog. There was so much ketchup that it caught on his lip and slid down his chin to land on his overalls. Waylon tried not to make a face. He wasn't sure if he succeeded or not. Jeremy didn’t if he’d tried at all.

"Gas, huh?" Billy finally said after he swallowed. "Just use the pump. Shove a twenty under the door. But I’m telling you, you go up there and all the gas in the world won’t do you any good. Just saying."

"And no one asked for your opinion," Jeremy said again, rolling his eyes before motioning for Lisa to follow as he turned around to yell to Chris to start pumping.

"What do you mean people don't come down?" Waylon asked, unable to help himself. Maybe it was just because he'd been thinking about horror games just a few minutes ago, but the possibility of a scary story made his heart rate increase and his attention sharpen.

"Every year about this time, like clockwork, people go looking for the old Buckner place and they don't come back." Billy shrugged and shoved the rest of the dog in his mouth, talking around it. The ketchup frothed as he spoke while he chewed, causing Waylon’s stomach to clench with nausea. "Me and my granddaddy see it _every_ year. That place has got all sorts of horror stories. Deaths and murders, the like. I wouldn't set foot there if it were me."

Miles snorted. "I'm sure the authorities would've done something by now if _that_ many people had just up and vanished in the same place." He smiled as he walked away. "I'd probably try to scare people if I were alone and bored out here too. I hope you have a better story for your next customers."

Waylon watched Miles go, watched the others fiddle with the pump before collectively figuring out how it was used. He frowned as he looked at all of them together, smiling and joking when it should be he and them at the _beach_ right now. Jeremy stood in the middle of it all like he was absorbing his friends' energy. Like this was _right_ for them, and he hadn't just forced himself into the group at just the right time.

And here Waylon was now, somehow on the outside looking in.

"You go up there and you’re all going to die," Billy said quietly and for a moment Waylon felt something cold settle in his stomach. The others were right, this was just some crackpot asshole out for a kick, but there was also something in the way this crazy attendant in the backwoods of nowhere was looking at them that didn't sit right with Waylon. Did they really know where they were going? What if there _was_ something up there? What if Billy was telling the truth?

 _Does it matter?_ a quiet internal voice of his whispered at the back of his mind, the one he let in when he was bothered and dark-minded and alone. _Everything dies._

The reason in that whisper was morbid but it also somehow swept away his growing concern like it had never been there. He looked at Billy for a second longer before shrugging.

"Well," Waylon said as he walked away. "I guess we’ll take our chances."

Billy’s silence followed him, but soon he was too far away to care. The others were already in the car, shuffling around and settling back in, clearly ready to get going, but before Waylon was out of earshot, Billy said one more thing.

"You're going to regret this." Billy’s tone was ominous. "They always do."

Waylon almost paused to look back, but that was before the SUV honked. The others were looking at him. The hatch was open and waiting for him.

"Come on, Waylon!" Lisa shouted from the passenger's seat. "We need to get going if we're going to swim while there’s still some daylight!"

"Fine, fine!" he said before jumping in the back and shutting the door. Immediately Jeremy was on the road again, going so fast that one of the bags Waylon had carefully stacked came crashing down on top of him. "Hey!"

"Sorry!" Jeremy said. "But the lady wants to swim, so we've got places to be."

Waylon didn't miss the amused gleam in Jeremy's eyes when he glanced at the rearview mirror, but he knew Lisa had. Thoughts of Billy and his weird prophecy vanished from his mind as irritation ate at him again because how could she not see it? She was Waylon’s closest friend since freshman year, and just because she was looking to get closer with Jeremy she was being like this?

In the seat in front of him, Miles was joking around and Chris was already starting to nod off again. With Lisa and Jeremy chatting in the front, Waylon simply sunk down further and pulled out his phone, scrolling rapidly through wedding dresses and thinking about horror as he wished he was anywhere but here.

* * *

**BELOW**

Nathan had to admit. While he'd known Mordecai had hand-chosen Billy as his understudy, he'd had his doubts. Just last year the kid had been an intern, and frankly, Nathan hadn't been impressed. Nothing about Billy stood out no matter what he’d done, at least not to him.

But after watching _that_ performance, watching the kid do an _excellent_ job as this year's Harbinger, Nathan had to admit he'd underestimated that forgettable intern.

While it lacked the crazy drama Mordecai heaped on, Billy Hope with his stoic warnings and disgusting accents to his performance was clearly a _natural._ The kids had been warned and they hadn’t listened.

They were headed toward the cabin.

"See!" Martin said with a grin crawling across his face as he nudged Nathan's shoulder. "I told you he could do it. Mordecai wouldn't have picked just _anyone_. It’s a different approach, sure, but the kid _nailed_ it. You know how that old freak is about the Harbinger role. I heard he was training the kid all year."

"Okay, okay, you're right," Nathan said, lifting his hands and smiling back. "The kid had it in him and we have an impressive backup for when Mordecai retires."

Martin snorted as he settled back in his chair at his workstation. " _If_ he retires. I'm pretty sure he's immortal."

"I hope not. Funny as it is, I don’t want to deal with his brand of crazy until the day _I_ retire," Nathan said as he sat back down too, preparing for the next phase. "Then again, I've been here forever, and he was here and old even back when I started. You might be right. We should call Containment."

Martin snickered, and as much fun as it was to poke fun at the old Harbinger, they had a job to do. The first hurdle had been jumped, but that only meant the main event was still on.

And it was what Nathan lived for.

Not that he _wanted_ to orchestrate the murder of the sacrificial cluster of youths every year, of course. What sane person _would_? But he'd been doing this for over thirty years now, and there was a reason he was sitting in the Lead Operator's position. He had a knack for this. A _gift_.

In his hands, the world kept taking laps around the sun.

Nathan rubbed his hands together as he focused on what needed to be done next. He'd already received status reports from Maintenance, Chemistry, and IT (who'd done an impressive job of locking Waylon Park's bank accounts and forcing the cluster to agree to Jeremy's plan instead). The cabin was set up and ready to go. He'd had a good fuck and his favorite turkey sandwich before getting to work, and the coffee pot was already brewing for the long night ahead. Everything was falling into place, smooth as silk, and he felt like a conductor ready to begin a perfect performance.

Tonight of all nights, he felt like he was on his game. Maybe it was the years he’d dedicated to his work or just instinct, but he had a feeling that tonight was going to be good. Something special.

"How's Containment coming along?

"The monsters are all up and ready to go," Tina said with a perky smile where she sat at a station to the side. "Looks like everyone's ready. Real excited, you know? The pot's going to be big this year."

Nathan grinned, excitement building. "Exactly what I want to hear! Looks like all we're waiting for now are the kids."

"Uh-oh," Martin said, and Nathan arched a brow. Martin was his Number Two and had been for years now. Nathan knew when the man said something he should probably listen. "Looks like it's down to just us and Japan. Everyone else has dropped the ball."

On the big screen in front of them, footage from other branches cycled through, messes and destructions of all kinds stamped over with bold red 'FAILURE' across them. Nathan studied each and knew he should be concerned. And he was, if only a little. It was hard to be concerned when this sort of situation happened practically every other year. Where everything came down to the American and Japanese branches.

While concerning, Nathan wasn't bothered. His team was _good,_ and no matter what the Japanese did tonight, success for their branch was more a matter of pride than anything else.

"We've been in this situation before. It's nothing new," Nathan said, setting the mood for everyone to follow. He couldn't afford for even one person to start worrying. "Our team is made of the best of the best. We know what we’re doing and we're going to _own_ this."

The others nodded and Martin shot him a discrete thumbs up before dismissing the other branches feeds and replacing them with a GPS tracker and countdown clock for the cluster’s impending arrival. The Harbinger phase had gone off without a hitch and now the real show was at hand.

Come hell or high water, his team was going to do their job and ensure those kids died a painful, horrible death. The sacrifices would be offered up, as so many before them had been.

All for the sake of the world.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And they're off to the cabin! I'm sure they're going to have a *great* time, right?
> 
> Until tomorrow!


	2. The Choice

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh man, here we go! Time for the next phase of the ritual. I just *wonder* what's going to happen? ;]
> 
> Enjoy!

He knew he wasn’t the only one thinking it when they pulled up the badly cleared driveway and saw the cabin for the first time. And because this had been Jeremy’s big and bright idea, Waylon didn’t stop himself from saying it.

“This is a murder cabin. The crazy attendant was right. We’re going to die.”

“Could you not, please? It’s just an old cabin,” Lisa said as she opened her door and took a step out. “They all look like this.”

“Rustic charm,” Miles reiterated again and Waylon shook his head as he opened the hatch and stepped out and moved a little closer. Chris stood next to him, hulking and tall as he stared at the building with a hint of the military bearing he’d learned in the ROTC program. Finally he nodded.

“Yeah, there’ve definitely been murders in there,” Chris decided. “You’re right. We're probably going to die.”

“Thank you,” Waylon said, vindicated that at least _one_ of his friends agreed with him for once, even if it was a joke. He turned to the trunk and pulled out his bag. “Bet it’s even worse _inside_.”

“It’s amazing, actually,” Jeremy said as he carried a cooler inside. “I saw the pictures on the website and everything.”

“Yeah, because you can always believe those,” Waylon muttered.

“At least we’ll have the area all to ourselves. I don’t want to deal with another crazy like that freak at the gas station. Could you believe that guy, Lisa?”

“I think people get lonely this far out here,” Lisa said as she shook her head and hauled her bag after her. “But still. To say we’re all going to die up here? Who says that kind of thing?”

“I don’t know,” Miles said before he clamped his hands down on Lisa’s shoulders so suddenly she jumped. “But it’s not too late to turn back!”

“Only if you want to pay me back for this place,” Jeremy said. “Stop being superstitious babies. This is going to be great!”

Reluctantly he followed Lisa inside with the others and saw the mounted trophies, the dark decor, the general musty, questionable scent in the air. Waylon sighed again. “Anyone else ready to pool funds and hightail it out of here?”

“With that attitude when the killing starts you’ll be the first to go,” Jeremy decreed, as he set the cooler down and reached inside for a beer. He took a sip and wilted with relief. “Fucking finally.”

“Looks like this place has rooms for all of us,” Chris said after reappearing from the hallway. A wicked grin appeared on his lips. “I got the best one, by the way.”

“Dibs on the one in the back!” Miles crowed as he sprinted past the rest of them.

“ _Asshole_ ,” Jeremy said before he dashed after with Lisa for a fight for whatever was left.

After a quick glance, Lisa made a face. “They’re all horrible!”

“What did you expect?” Waylon shot back, following after more sedately. Frankly he didn’t care which room he ended up in. He just wanted to shut the door on everyone for a second and cool down. They were here and much as he didn’t like that it was here and with Jeremy, he _did_ want to have a good time with his friends if he could. And he needed a few minutes by himself first if that was going to happen.

Lisa darted into the one she’d chosen and as he stepped into one of the empty ones, he found himself shoved back.

“Sorry, Way, this one’s mine,” Jeremy said with a smirk. “Left you the best one though.”

“Yeah. I’m sure,” Waylon said before he glowered. “And don’t call me Way. You’re not my friend.”

“Oh, don’t be like that, Way,” Jeremy said as he stepped closer, using his height to his advantage to stand over him and make Waylon feel small. “We’re all here to have a good time. We _should_ be friends. You wouldn’t want to spoil this for Lisa and the others would you?”

"You’re a real douchebag, aren’t you?" Waylon said as he refused to back down. "She’s going to see through you. They all are.”

Jeremy snickered before rolling his eyes and giving a little, incredulous shake of his head.

“What is your deal?” Jeremy leaned forward. “What? Angry I’m stealing your girl?”

Waylon glowered. “She’s _not_ my girl.”

“Then what do you care?” Jeremy asked before his eyes flashed and his gaze turned contemplative and molten. “Or, maybe you’re jealous of her?”

“Fuck off,” Waylon said, having enough as he shoved him back. “No way would I want a narcissistic asshole like you.”

“Well, you never know,” Jeremy said as he stepped closer again, this time deep into Waylon’s personal space. “I mean, the small, blond Asian look is hot.” He reached forward. “We could have fun too, you know.”

Waylon knocked his hand away, repulsed. “If you touch me, you’re losing a hand—"

"Ah, so much bark, but I know the truth," Jeremy said before blatantly patting him on the cheek. "It looks like I still have a hand."

Rage flooded Waylon, and maybe it was the stress, or the irritation, or just the simple fact that he didn’t want to _be_ here – fun-filled weekend with his friends or not – but something within Waylon shifted. He shoved Jeremy back again and glowered cold fury.

"Touch me one more time," he promised. "And I will murder you."

"Oh," Jeremy said as he smirked, though there was more teeth in it than pleasure. "So scary."

But he didn't touch him again, and Waylon reached for the door that led to his room, entered it, and slammed it shut behind him. He dared Jeremy to try anything.

He didn't.

“I hate that guy, I hate that guy,” Waylon chanted angrily after locking the door behind him and turning on the lamp to beat back the murky gloom slipping through the window from the overcast outside. But now that he was in his room, he saw what Lisa meant earlier. It was a bedroom and it had all the typical furnishings, but there were little things about it that were… off. Clashing colors. Strange fabrics. Scents and smells and creepy art. “If Jeremy _did_ see pictures of this place and still decided this was a good idea, he’s insane.”

With nothing else to do except deal with it, Waylon sighed and tossed his bag on the chair in the corner and sat on the bed, testing it out. After the cramped ride up it was all he could do not to wilt into the mattress and shut his eyes for a little bit. Enjoy the quiet. Calm down.

But the eerie feeling in the room bothered him, and his eyes kept slipping around, checking corners and shadows like there _might_ be something there he should be noticing. Something insidious and sinister.

“It’s just a bedroom in a creepy cabin,” he said as he covered his eyes, shoving the crawling discomfort lower in his belly where he hoped it would go away. “Most cabins _look_ like this. It's just a cabin thing."

Not that he'd been in a whole lot of real cabins. All of the ones he'd ever seen had been in horror movies so what the hell did he know about 'real cabins'?

Waylon listened to the others shout at each other through the walls, momentarily snickering to himself when Lisa screamed at Miles about peeping on her through a fucked up one-way mirror whoever owned this place apparently installed. Waylon glanced around his room and was a solid seventy-five percent sure nothing like that was in his.

But as he continued to listen he couldn't help but frown. He could hear the others and he could hear the air conditioner blowing in his room. He could hear the buzz of the old lamp on the nightstand beside him and the creak of the mattress springs under him as he shifted and moved.

But no matter how hard he listened, he couldn't hear anything else. No nature. No birds. No annoying grasshoppers or cicadas. Not even tree leaves shifting in the wind of an oncoming storm.

Nothing.

* * *

By evening he didn’t remember that he couldn't hear the little sounds of the forest because he was tipsy and _finally_ starting to have a good time with his friends – minus that bastard Jeremy. He hadn’t gotten to enjoy some quiet time for long before Lisa had pounded on his door to get up so they could all go swimming. Frankly, he didn’t _want_ to swim and had every intention of sitting on the dock taking pictures.

In retrospect, he should’ve known that the others wouldn’t let him just idly sit by, and like it or not they’d finally, at last, dragged him into the water fully clothed. It was only after the fact, when he’d went to change into something dry, that he realized in his displeasure about the whole Jeremy situation, when he’d been packing he’d forgotten an extra set of underwear. Waylon was not a particular fan of going commando, and it was just another black mark against the trip, the location, and against Jeremy.

But Chris had surprised them all by cooking _incredible_ burgers just as the overcast sky had gone matte black with the night, and by now he’d drunk enough that his irritation had finally died down enough that he really _was_ having a good time now. Sure, Jeremy was still there, but if Waylon focused he could almost pretend he wasn’t there at all. It was just him and his friends, enjoying the weekend together before they graduated. Beach or not, this was what they’d wanted. He guessed it didn’t matter how it happened in the end.

Even if the place _was_ still creepy as hell.

“So, what now?” Waylon asked as he sipped his beer. They’d spent the time since dinner chatting and reminiscing, but he was starting to get bored and trying not to think about all the fun they could’ve been having at the beach instead. “I hope we aren’t going to, you know, go hiking or anything.”

God, he hoped not. All he could think about was the chaffing he’d get from where his jeans were already rubbing wrong.

“It’s a nice area for hiking,” Lisa said. “I’d like to go if the weather clears up.”

“Yeah, there’re supposed to be some waterfalls around here or something I think,” Jeremy said before his eyes brightened with an idea. “Maybe they’re high enough and deep enough to jump off of? That could be a lot of fun.”

“Oh,” she said with an edge of interest Waylon didn’t like. “I like that idea, we should definitely try that.”

“So long as Jeremy is the first to jump and test the waters, fine by me," Waylon said with a shrug. Jumping waterfalls did sound fun, but he’d happily let Jeremy risk his life first.

“Whatever we do, I just want to have a good time,” Chris said. “I get my officer commission soon and then it’s a career of uniforms and regulations. I’m here to regret decisions later.”

“Can do, will do,” Miles promised with a smug grin.

“What we should’ve done was bring a game system or something. With the weather like it is, what else are we all going to do stuck in this creepy cabin.”

“Drink,” Chris said.

“Get high,” Miles said.

“Orgy,” Jeremy offered.

“I mean, there isn’t even wi-fi here,” Waylon bemoaned. “Just think. We could be playing games and having _real_ fun.”

“ _Nerd_ ," Miles said dramatically.

“As if you don’t play them either,” Chris snorted.

“Excuse me,” Miles said, shooting Chris a look. “Mario Kart is for people with taste. Definitely not like the shooters you like.”

“Super Smash,” Lisa corrected, who could beat anyone in any game with Peach. “But really, anything but Waylon’s horror games. I hate jump scares.”

“It’s not all jump scares,” Waylon defended with a smile, pride welling up in him. “The stories are creative. The graphics are awesome. The characters are thought out.”

_And hot_ , he silently added.

Jeremy snorted before taking a swig of his beer, and Waylon knew he wouldn’t like what came next. “You know what I think? I think you’re one of those horror gamers who play because you think the psychos are hot. There’s a whole following, right? People who like the murderers.”

Waylon rolled his eyes and pretended _hard_ that he didn’t know what Jeremy was talking about. “Have you ever played a horror game?”

“As a matter of fact, I have,” Jeremy replied, reclining back in his chair. “I mean, I hated it, and it was stupid, but I had this awesome kill once—”

Whatever Jeremy was about to say was drowned out. The entire conversation drowned out and died when a thick, solid thump interrupted everything.

They all froze.

Waylon stared at all of them, catching glances from everyone before eventually he and Chris sat a little straighter, looking around.

"You heard that, right?" Waylon asked. "Sounded like something fell."

"Probably a squirrel on the roof," Jeremy said, eyeing the ceiling.

"But it sounded like it came from the floor," Lisa said before she lifted her feet. "It felt like it too."

"That's because it _did_ come from the floor. Look over there." Chris pointed along the back of the sofa and into the dining area. "Basement door."

"And it ... what? Popped open? Just like that? For no reason?" Waylon asked even as he rose to his feet as the whisper in his head perked up with interest. He was already moving toward it. Already curious. Already feeling the first exciting prickles of fear. “This place is weird, guys. I’m telling you.”

“It’s just old,” Jeremy said, slumping back into his seat and bored now that the mystery had been solved. “It’s what old places like this _do_.”

“In horror movies,” Waylon said.

“And aren’t you _not_ supposed to explore the creepy basement in horror movies?” Lisa asked, arching an eyebrow pointedly as Waylon gripped the handle and heaved. The door was heavy and rusted, but he couldn’t help himself. Maybe it was the uneasy feeling he’d felt all evening or maybe it was the booze, or the conversation, for the fact that Jeremy clearly didn’t want anything to do with the basement, but all he could think of was that this was _perfect_. How could he _not_ investigate the creepy basement?

Weird as it was, that part of him buried deep down that craved horror wanted – no – _needed_ to do it.

“I just wanna know what’s down here,” he said as he finally got it open enough to look down. A set of old stairs drifted into the darkness and the scent of dust and old forgotten things assaulted his nose and made him sneeze. “It’s probably nothing anyway.”

“Or a murderer lying in wait!” Miles shouted enthusiastically before he nudged Chris. “Good thing you’re here, big guy.”

“Good thing Lisa’s here,” Chris corrected as he slung an arm around her shoulders. “I’m not stupid. No way _in hell_ would I go down there.”

“Chris is right. All of us are smart enough not to go down there. _You’re_ the one that keeps saying this is a murder cabin,” Lisa said, shaking her head at him as he put one tentative foot on the first step. “Like, really Waylon.”

“Where’s your sense of adventure? I thought we were supposed to have fun. Make stupid decisions and all that,” he said even as his heart raced and his body felt light and heavy with the heady blend of excitement and fear. “Besides, it’s probably nothing.”

“You’re going to fall through some rotted wood and break a leg, and when you do I’m going to say I told you so.”

“You’re pre-med, you’ll patch me up.”

“It doesn’t work like that!”

“Yeah, yeah,” Waylon said, waving her off as he descended – if more carefully because he really _wasn’t_ sure if there was wood-rot or not and he didn’t particularly like the idea of getting injured in some old, molded place. Pulling out his phone, he activated its flashlight and squinted into the darkness as it closed in around him. Above, tiny flashes of light could be seen in the cracks of the wood but otherwise it was dark and musty, another world that muffled and diluted everything. Dead and forgotten.

His eyes widened as he looked around, surprised, because it seemed like there was a lot to be forgotten down here.

“Well, first-to-die?” Miles shouted. “You murdered yet?”

“It’s just ... stuff,” he called back, moving further in before finding a chain that activated an old bulb above. It flickered to life, illuminating the room in pale, dying orange that hardly did anything. Still, he deactivated his flashlight and ventured ahead, excited and curious. “It’s a lot of old stuff.”

“Anything cool? Old school sex toys? That could make all this kind of spicy,” Jeremy asked with a loud laugh, and Waylon rolled his eyes. Pussy. What he wouldn’t give to see Jeremy down here. Bet that would take the cocky attitude right out of him.

Waylon slowly explored and he couldn't help but think this was _so_ like a horror movie or game with all this stuff everywhere. Films. Puzzle boxes. Battered old journals. A power-switch with nothing to connect to. Just … stuff for stuff’s sake it seemed. A little of everything and it was all strange and eerie. Nothing matching anything else. In a weird way it almost didn't make sense.

A chill rolled down his spine as he crept further in. Belatedly he realized there was a tiny smile on his lips.

That dark part of him couldn’t help but think it was all so … wonderful.

"Waylon?" Lisa called before she appeared on the first few steps, looking around uneasily. "Oh, wow. Hoarder."

"Little bit of everything," he said, dragging his fingers through some gauzy fabric spotted with something rust-colored that could be blood or could also be dirt. It was hard to tell in the light. "You should take a look at this stuff."

"No way," she said, crossing her arms tightly over her chest. "I’m not going down there." Lisa made a face. "There're probably rats."

"And spiders," he said with a grin over his shoulder. She glowered and darted back up the steps, and his heart cooled because for a moment, even with her on the highest steps, he hadn't been alone down here. He knew it was just his nerves and imagination getting to him now that the excitement was wearing off a little, but it seemed like now that he was down here, he was surrounded by ... it was hard to put into words. It was like he wasn't alone. Like everything was sort of … looking at him. With Lisa there, he hadn’t noticed. But with her gone?

His back prickled, and he remembered how it always went for the one idiot who went off by themselves in horror stories. This had been cool at first given his horror inclinations, but now that he was here? Maybe it _was_ better to leave well enough alone.

"Waylon! Come on, get out of the basement!" Lisa called again, a little more insistent. "It's too spooky down there, and I _really_ don't want to have Chris drag your ass out."

"Why would I—?" Chris said, but Waylon was already moving toward the steps. Slowly but he was moving.

"O-okay, Lisa," he said, surprising himself with the nervous stutter. "Just a sec. I'll be right up."

But it was taking longer than a second because as he moved away he kept seeing more. It was like he was looking into a crystal, and as he moved he saw new facets of everything that was inside. New things revealed themselves, tempted him forward to touch and draw into his hand. That deeper part of him was getting curious again, and his curiosity always got the better of him. And yeah, he really should leave after this very long second, but – well.

How could he leave without looking at everything?

Why _would_ he?

Only he didn’t look at everything. He meant to, but as his eyes grazed something snatched his attention, making him double-take a small vanity desk tucked to the side. It was kind of cluttered, just like everything else was, and what his eyes snagged on wasn't even in the front and openly displayed. It was almost hidden in the clutter, dusty and forgotten.

_That’s it,_ his strange, inner voice urged, louder and stronger than it had ever been. _That’s the one._

Waylon could only obey.

His thoughts quieted and the world went silent as he moved, drawn, and before he realized it Waylon had pushed the other things aside and pulled the object forward. It glinted faintly in the dim light, tarnished silver edges hinting at something that had once shown with brilliance, and faded, peeling green paint that might have been handsome decades ago. A tiny clasp kept it shut and embossed on the front were two letters.

E.G.

Entranced, his fingers traced over the faint letters, feeling their shapes before he found himself slipping a nail under the clasp and flipping it up because it was just … the next natural step. It struggled for a moment against him, as if trying to resist, but then with a little more pressure it opened without a problem. Slowly Waylon lifted the lid, and the world fell away as the music box, now that it was open, began to play a delicate, off-tune melody.

_"When I was a boy my mother often said to me, get married son and see how happy you will be."_

"So creepy," he muttered, transfixed as he watched the music box turn, the top of the lid tilting enough to reveal a small, weathered photo. A family. A thin wife, a father with cold, hard eyes, and a small, sturdy-shouldered boy with dark hair and a grim look.

_"I've looked all over, but no girlie can I find, who seems to be like the little girl I have in mind."_

Waylon _thrilled._

The magnetic pull that held him abruptly broke, and ice descended down his back and got worse as, after the final lyric, the music slowed and quieted. The winder at the end stopped spinning with its stored energy. The basement went quiet again, deathly silent. Uncomfortably empty.

The boy in the photo stared at him with dead eyes, eyes that seemed to _see_ him, and he shivered with primal dread.

Waylon jumped hard, almost knocking over some of the other useless junk around him when Miles yelled, "Waylon! Come on, Jeremy and Chris are drinking all the beer! There’s not going to be any left if you don’t hurry up down there."

Waylon glanced up at the basement door, half expecting that it had shut on him, trapping him down here in what he was sure now was Nightmare-fuel Central, but the strong light from the kitchen still stretched down to him. The others were still up there and apparently the beer was about to be decimated. He could even hear the loud music they’d started playing. Everything was fine. Everything was normal.

Shaking his head at himself, Waylon shut the music box and shoved it back into its place. Lisa was right. This place was spooky and creepy, and he probably _was_ lucky that nothing had bitten him given how many spider webs he'd had to tear through in his short time down here.

"Yeah, Miles. I'm coming," he called up, and it was easier to leave now than it had been only a minute ago. Like now that he'd touched something – experienced something – the strange sensation that everything was watching him, waiting for him, was suddenly gone. Like everything in the room was just ... useless junk.

"Too. Many. Horror. Games," he scolded himself as his heart pounded in his chest. "I'm gonna play Animal Crossing when we get back."

And so he left the basement, kicked the hatch shut, and happily stole a beer from Lisa's hands before putting the whole ordeal out of his mind.

* * *

**BELOW**

"And it's the Groom!"

Across the room scowls and sighs and eclectic curses filled the air while Melinda and the ladies in Wardrobe whooped with glee since their favorite had been chosen and they’d won the pot.

But Nathan was too distracted to care. He could hardly believe what had happened. Waylon wasn't supposed to be the only one who'd gone down into the basement to make The Choice. He wasn't supposed to go down there _alone_.

But after Miles had left behind the laced vodka that would've primed them all for curiosity and lowered inhibitions, he and his team had to make do with what they had. The Choice had to happen as soon as possible so the monster chosen had all the time it would need to do the deed.

The Psych Department suggested dosing Waylon with an aerosol in his room, which had been easy to do through the AC. But Nathan had thought the little guy would be too chicken to go down by himself. That he would convince the others into going with him. That's what always happened in past groups. If the Virgin went down first, inevitably the others followed. He'd seen enough sacrifice clusters to know by now. That's what _always_ happened. It was why he'd been sure the Buckners were about to be let loose _again_. Everyone _loved_ to read that first stupid entry of that stupid diary. He'd heard it so often he practically had it memorized.

But no. If Waylon had been scared, he hadn't shown it, but worse than that, he actually seemed to _like_ it. While the kid had been in the basement perusing around, Nathan had taken a closer look at The Virgin's file, trying to understand why this was happening. It was then that he noticed a tiny note at the bottom, penciled in like an afterthought.

_Phobophilia._ Love of fear.

Nathan guessed so because while it wasn't unheard of that only one of the sacrifices made it down there and made The Choice for the group, it was a first that it was The Virgin. Even worse was that Waylon seemed to enjoy horror. Maybe it had something to do with him being a guy?

Still, as far as choices went, Nathan wouldn't have ever put his money on the Groom. It was a rare year when Gluskin got to have a night out of Containment, but when he was, Nathan had to admit the Groom had a solid track record. The Choice was made, and the fact of the matter was that this was in the bag. Everything would be more graphic than usual, and he'd have to be quick to make sure the viewers got the juiciest shots, but this wasn't his first rodeo.

"It's gonna be a bloody one this time," Martin said as he sipped from his water bottle and watched the room file out now that the monster had been chosen. "Full party wipe. That's what I should've bet on."

"It's almost always a full party wipe, so where's the fun in betting on that?" Nathan said before he grinned. "You know what _will_ be fun?"

"Leaving the mess Gluskin's going to make for the interns to clean up?” Martin said. “Watching their faces?"

"Oh, to be an intern," Nathan said before he put on his headset and slipped back into his seat. Quickly he performed one of his primary duties and made the order for the Groom's release. He waited a moment before a green light flashed on the panel, and he smiled before kicking his feet back on the console and tucking his hands behind his head.

No matter what the Japanese did, the world was saved. The Groom was a psychotic beast with an insatiable artistic flair. Chris Walker might be able to give Gluskin a run for his money for all of ten seconds, but the handgun the kid had brought was filled with blanks and the weed brownies Miles was starting to share were laced. The kids might put up a struggle, but Gluskin was going to _murder_.

Still, he couldn't help but think about what had happened, if only because The Choice? It had gone unexpectedly, which was a real first for him. What if something else happened? Something completely unpredictable?

Nathan shook his head and shrugged it off. That was his job after all. Controlling things just right, adapting to the unexpected. He was good at his job. Great, even.

Everything would be fine. He knew it would be.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I hope you enjoyed this chapter, it was super fun to write but now I know we're about to run into semi-uncharted territory and I hope you'll like how things unfold next. Because it's all rainbows and butterflies now, right? Nothing could *possibly* go wrong.
> 
> Till tomorrow!


	3. The Whore

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Choice has been made which means our man of the hour is on his way! Oh, I just *wonder* what's going to happen :]
> 
> Enjoy!

If he weren’t drunk and having a great time with three of the other four people who’d come out here to this backwoods place with, Waylon would have had the sense to known that a game of spontaneous, childish hide-and-seek in the woods at night when they were half-sure it was about to storm was a _bad_ idea.

But he _was_ drunk, happily drunk, and really? Nothing bad was going to happen even if it was dark and it did start raining. Everything was fine and he was having a great time with Lisa and Miles and Chris. Thoughts of the basement didn’t even cross his mind, and while he didn’t like Jeremy, he wasn’t going to let that narcissistic fucker ruin the final good weekend he had with his friends.

So when Miles had dragged them all into the game, he’d just giggled with Lisa and they’d had a round in the cabin — which hadn’t lasted long since no one wanted to go into the basement, and that meant the options for hiding were slim at best — before the next round inevitably moved outside. The worst that would happen would be a twisted ankle or a snake bite or tracking animal shit back into the cabin, and there were just more places to hide! The others were so loud he’d hear them coming a mile away, and so long as he kept an eye on the porch light and didn’t stray too far from it, he wouldn’t get lost. He was going to be the hide and seek champ.

While he was sure that even drunk as he was, he’d hear Chris coming a mile away, it wasn’t Chris who found him.

To be fair, he wasn't sure what he'd heard or who it was. It was the middle of the night in a forest he didn't know, and while he hoped it was Lisa or Miles, he'd seen them peel off to the other side of the cabin, closer to the lake. He'd also seen Jeremy go that way too, but given the asshole's track record, Waylon had a strong feeling about who was making the hair at the back of his neck stand on end.

Joke was on Jeremy though. Waylon had played enough horror games to know what being crept up upon felt like and how to react, and drunk or not, he wasn't scared. Or, well, he was, but this was different. He was prepared. He knew he was being followed and knew how to keep moving anyway – it happened all the time in his games. As a matter of fact, he _welcomed it_ , because if that bastard wanted a piece of him, Waylon had enough pent up anger to make him regret it.

While he'd meant to keep closer to the cabin, he soon found himself drifting away, searching for a better place to confront Jeremy, and impressed himself with how quietly he moved. He barely heard himself, and when he crouched low and went still and quiet, yes. He could hear someone out there in the underbrush. They were moving slowly, carefully. In the silent forest, every sound was stark.

That was why, even in his inebriated state, he frowned in confusion because while he heard a set creeping slowly through the forest, he also ... maybe he was imagining it, but he thought he also heard another set. Heavier tread. Twigs and branches snapping like whoever it was didn't care about stealth in the slightest. Chris maybe? But that didn’t make sense either because he just saw him take off after the others.

Stranger still, as he listened more intently he could have sworn he heard ... singing. And Chris didn’t sing.

Waylon was so focused on deciding if he was hearing things or not that he jumped when the louder sound of a bush being shoved away startled him. He scowled as he jerked around.

"Get lost," he said when Jeremy moved out from between a couple of trees into the small clearing Waylon had found, toward him and not on the other side of the planet where Waylon would've liked him. "This is my spot. Stop following me."

"Don't see why we can't share," Jeremy said with a smirk. “Everyone else is out by the lake. It’s just the two of us right now.”

There was something in the way Jeremy said that that Waylon didn’t like, and equipped with righteous anger, he clenched his fist. While he still felt a little light-headed, he was sobering up fast. Ready for a fight.

"Fuck _off,_ Jeremy. I meant what I said earlier."

"Oh, that you'll murder me if I touch you." His eyes raked up and down Waylon. A chill slipped down his spine because that had been predatory. He’d thought this was more bullying, but now he thought this was about something else entirely. "Give me a chance to change your mind about that, Waylon.”

“I thought you were here for Lisa,” Waylon said, unable to stop himself.

“Well, I mean, Lisa’s great an all. Hot, smart.” Jeremy shrugged. “But there’s always been something about little blond Asians that I just can’t _quite_ get over, you know? So cute and small. I just haven’t been able to get you out of my head ever since you bleached your hair blond.”

Waylon thought back to when this jerk had started giving him a hard time and realized that, yeah. It was about the same time he’d decided to bleach his hair. It was right after his annual bride dream, when he’d finally given in to the urge to go blond.

“So what? All of the bullying was just you showing me you’re attracted to me and like me? That’s fucked up.” Waylon scoffed. “You have to be a creep—”

Waylon jerked back, reeling from the sucker punch he’d just been delivered. Stars burst across his vision, and he staggered but caught himself. Copper flashed across his tongue and he glowered furiously before he was forced to dodge another fist.

“I never said I liked you, Waylon. As a matter of fact, I don’t. There’s always been something about you that rubs me the wrong way. But then you bleached your hair blond.” Jeremy lunged again. “And I just. Couldn’t. Stop. Thinking about you.”

“Not my problem,” Waylon snarled, tired of staying on the defense. He planted his feet and threw a punch of his own, but Jeremy moved easily out of the way. "You were going to try something out here in the middle of nowhere, weren't you? That’s why you suggested this shithole. I _knew_ it was too much of a coincidence," Waylon accused, putting it together as he swung again. Missed again. He got angrier with each failed attempt and Jeremy had the gall to smirk.

"It was a happy coincidence I found this place, so don’t blame that on me. And why would I try anything, Waylon? You're the one attacking me right now. You're coming after _me._ " Jeremy arched a brow, smirk turning wicked. "Maybe it’s you who wants me?"

Waylon thought he'd been prepared, but this time when he moved, Jeremy was faster. One moment Waylon was on his feet and the next he was tossed over a shoulder and slammed into the ground hard enough the air burst out of him and he saw stars. His body screamed from the shock of it all, and his head ached fiercely from the collision. Pain demanded his attention, but he didn't- _couldn't_ give in, not when Jeremy was suddenly over him, straddling his waist and holding him down.

“I really do love that you’re fighting,” Jeremy said as he pressed down on him before lifting Waylon just enough to slam him again, keeping him disoriented. “You know how long I’ve wanted to do this?”

But Waylon wasn’t listening to him, not when he suddenly heard something — someone — in the distance. It was that voice he’d thought he’d imagined earlier. It was low and melodic, and while it didn’t sound like any of his friends and he couldn’t dare to hope that there was someone out here in the middle of the night in the middle of nowhere like this, it didn’t matter. Jeremy was about to try and rape him, and Waylon wasn’t so proud he wouldn’t scream.

“Help!”

Jeremy snickered. “They won’t hear you. The others are too far away. I mean, come on. They have to outrun Chris, and do you know how dogged that guy can be? Sorry, Waylon, but it’s just you and me—”

But Waylon still wasn’t listening to Jeremy. He kept yelling, screaming, calling, because that low voice he’d heard? He couldn’t let himself believe that they hadn’t heard him by now. Couldn’t believe that the pause he’d thought he’d heard was just a product of his imagination. That while the melody had stopped, there were footsteps now.

And they were getting louder.

Waylon was still screaming, struggling, when Jeremy scowled and struck him across the temple. Pain exploded in his head and Waylon’s perception of the world flashed and fluttered.

But not before he saw a pair of eyes gleaming in the darkness on the other side of the small field.

“Will you just shut up?” Jeremy snapped, face twisted and angry. “This is barely worth the effort, I swear to God—”

Waylon felt more than saw hands dropping to his waistband, but he was still so disoriented. The ground tilted, he ached, and all he could do was shake his head weakly. Shove at Jeremy with hands he could hardly feel.

“No,” he slurred, trying to rally his body, stabilize his perception enough to fight, but he was failing. “Stop.”

But Jeremy didn't stop. He snickered instead as the hard bulge of his dick pressed up against Waylon's leg. He felt sick, disgusted and nauseous, and that dark whisper within him was starting to grow as he was fading. But to his surprise, it wasn’t growing in him out of cold fear or panic. It was the opposite, something hot, like fire. Like anger.

Like fury.

"Get your hands off me," he said with more feeling, drawing on the growing rage to give him strength as he shoved again. "Get off!"

He bucked and Jeremy snarled before hitting him again, and then a third and a fourth time. The stars were back now, the world spun around him, and his body was so weak. He thought of those glowing eyes in the darkness and a pained whimper slipped shamefully out of his throat. Everything was getting fuzzy. He hated this. _Hated it_.

He _hated_ Jeremy Blaire.

Then Waylon heard a scream. A yell of pure, animal rage.

Waylon's mind fogged, and while he didn't go unconscious, what happened next was just ... hell, he didn't even know what it was. It was little more than confusing snapshots and scents. Disorientating motions and blurs. Sounds that made sense and sounds that didn't, like he was somehow riding in the backseat of his own head and throughout it all there was _something_ there, something over him, driving him, calling to that dark part of him desperately, viciously, adoringly and ... and it didn't make sense. Nothing made sense.

Well, that was a lie.

The voice. That low, melodic voice. Waylon couldn't quite understand what the voice was saying, but it was there when nothing else had been. It was there as the weight above him vanished, there as another voice screamed, there as something hot and wet and slick covered his skin. There with satisfaction as the darkness within him _preened._

That voice was _there_ , and it didn't go away when his mind finally started righting itself.

He was breathing hard, hard and fast as his heart was beating a mile a minute. Everything was so dark and confusing, but the voice was there right as his ear, and there was something – someone – solid and warm behind him, protective and strong safe and-and—!

His mind went blank when he saw Jeremy staring up at him from the ground, eyes flat and lifeless and body brutally stabbed through and butchered. Blood—it glittered in the moonlight black instead of red, but it had to be blood, God, it had to be, because the gore, it was everywhere, on Jeremy, on him, on his hands, on his face, and, that _thing_ he always kept deep, deep down within him was singing, empowered, euphoric and—!

"Darling."

That voice, that deep, low, rich, decadent voice filled his mind, penetrated it, touched every corner of it and Waylon couldn't understand—he just _couldn't_. His thoughts kept flying away, his body was on fire in every way it seemed possible it could be. He was scared, he was hard and excited. A shiver of delight fought the cold fear tearing at his back and he was stupid and needy and _Goddamn it all_ he was crying too. He was sobbing and laughing and there were hands on him now. Big and solid ones holding his arms firmly. But they weren’t Jeremy’s. Hell no they weren’t Jeremy’s because Jeremy was on the ground in front of him, dead-eyed and butchered. The man at his back was massive and warm and _alive_.

"Oh, my darling," his savior said again, this time softer. Soothingly. Gentle and adoring. "You'll wear yourself out if you keep up like this."

"What—?" Waylon gasped, but even as he did something caused them both to still. It broke through the silence, replaced it. Confused him. Filled him with hope and enraged him.

“Waylon?” voices called. They sounded anxious. Loud. Moving closer. “Jeremy?”

“We heard screaming, is everything all right?”

“Hello?” Lisa called. “Waylon! Jeremy!”

“Waylon!”

“Guys,” Waylon abruptly babbled, his voice little more than a jolt and a whisper before he mindlessly tried again with more success. “Guys!”

“ _More_ whores?” the man behind him swore, but Waylon barely heard him. His friends were there. They were coming. They’d _heard_ him, and they were coming to help him – help _them_ and—!

An arm clamped around his waist as he started to struggle to his feet, drawing him back against a solid body while a big hand curled around his neck, cutting off his air. Silencing. Wouldn’t let go.

"Don’t worry, it’s okay," the man said in his ear, tone so gentle and loving even as he continued to strangle Waylon. "I know you’re afraid and in the throes of hysteria, but you don't have to worry. I'll take care of the other _whores_. Just rest and recover. A nose nuzzled the back of his head tenderly. “I’ll take care of _everything_."

_The others?_ Waylon thought as unconsciousness dug hooks in his flagging awareness and forced him down against his will as oxygen deprivation took its toll. _What—?_

He was sinking fast, going limp in those strong arms, wondering if he'd ever wake up again or if this was it. If this was how he died.

But as Waylon faded away, he heard the man say one more thing before everything went black.

"It’s a husband’s duty after all, Darling," he said. "Especially on their wedding day."

* * *

**BELOW**

Nathan stared at the monitor with its flickering reception and broken audio that the IT department was _still_ trying to fix. As far as nightmare scenarios went, this wasn't the worst he'd ever experienced, but he _did not like it either_.

Everything had been progressing according to schedule, and while admittedly he had not anticipated that the Whore would attempt to rape the Virgin when Psych had sworn up and down that Jeremy had a thing for Lisa – not that he was supposed to attempt to rape her either, rape hadn't been in the play _at all_ – the Groom had found them. Gluskin had been there and he'd been filled with rage like he always was when he was out to kill the Whore.

Only this time, something had been different. Sure, Gluskin hated the Whore more than any of the others, but this … this had been something else as he'd launched himself at Jeremy.

Unfortunately, that was when the audio/visual feed had abruptly cut out. Martin was sure it was because the two brawlers had gotten too close to the camera and something had been damaged in the fight. It was just bad luck that they were in an area that didn't have more coverage.

Despite the damage, there had been just enough sound to get through the static. Screams. The clear and obvious sounds of murder. He refused to be worried because Gluskin was a _champ_ at these things when fate spun the wheel and let him out of the cage for the night, and every monster knew the order. The Whore first, the Virgin last.

But this _was_ Eddie Gluskin. The Groom. The psycho who thought _everyone_ was a whore if they weren't his special darling, and _no one_ was that. And frankly, it was that look in the Groom's eyes before the feed cut out that made him uneasy. That madness for some reason heightened more than he'd ever seen out of the Groom. Admittedly, Gluskin wasn't called up all that often, but Nathan had never seen _that_.

Unbridled, monstrous fury.

It made him think the worst.

What if the Groom had killed the Virgin too? What if the sacrificial order had been compromised? What if they _failed_ , and then the Japanese branch failed too? They had a _track record_ to think of, for crying out loud! A world to save!

And he didn't _know._

"What happened? What _the fuck_ happened?" Nathan demanded, trying to tune the monitor again and getting nothing but more static and snow for his efforts and impatience. "Is anyone going to tell me what happened?"

"Don't know," Martin said as he fiddled with the machines with better success than he had. IT must've finally started doing their job because a backup camera had been moved into view, a birds-eye angle from one of the remote-controlled avians. Nathan never liked them, but something was better than nothing at this point and he'd have taken a GoPro feed from one of the sacrifices if it meant he could see what the _fuck_ was going on.

They studied the screen and slowly Nathan let out a tight sigh. The image, of course, was shitty, but they had a birds-eye view of the kill site at least – because it _was_ a kill site now. Jeremy's body lay stabbed and butchered, intestines and gore mixing with the blood that was splattered everywhere. But while relieving as it was that the cycle was started and the first kill had been made, the state of Jeremy Blaire was the _least_ of his concerns.

"Waylon," he said, eyes searching everywhere. "Where's Waylon?"

"I'm checking other feeds from nearby cameras," Martin said, brow furrowed with focus. His screen flickered, changing from perspective to perspective, and it was difficult for Nathan not to hold his breath. Where was the Virgin? Where was the _goddamn_ Virgin?

His breath caught, and he jolted in his seat as he pointed at the screen. "There! Go back one!"

Martin dutifully did as he was told and sure enough, there was Waylon Park, settled over the Groom's shoulder unmoving, but – as far as he could tell – alive. He couldn't see any stab wounds, and while there was a significant amount of blood covering them both, there wasn't a trail either.

Through the audio Nathan could hear the Groom was singing that sick, creepy song. It was _his_ song, the one the psycho always sang as he prepared for a kill. It made the muscles of his shoulders relax slightly. He might be singing it, but it wasn't for Waylon, not yet. Gluskin hadn't lost control.

Relieved, he sank into his seat before running his hands through his hair. This job was going to turn him gray. It was a goddamn miracle he wasn't white-haired already with all the stress this put him under.

"Seems like everything's back on track," he said before he nodded to Martin to pull the Whore's lever. Usually he'd do it himself, but right now all he wanted to do was find out what the hell had happened in the minutes they'd lost footage. That was more important to him than some ceremonial jar-breaking. He picked up the phone and hit the line he'd had IT on hold for. "I don't care what you have to do, get me that missing footage. Something must have been close enough to catch it. That or fix the footage that was recorded."

He didn't give them a chance to respond, only hung up on them and tried to breathe and calm his still racing heart.

"What do you want the footage for?" Martin said as he lowered himself into his seat. "The Whore's dead, the Virgin's still alive—"

"I know you've been doing this for a while now, but in the grand scheme of things, you're still pretty new to this," Nathan said, wrangling his irritation, if only barely. "Let's just say I want it to ease my worries. If you need more than that, it’ll be juicy footage the viewers might like to see. I don't care what reason you want to use, but you listen. Our job is to keep an eye on what's going on up top and make sure _everything_ goes the way it's supposed to. What just happened were minutes where _we don't know what happened_." He leaned closer to Martin, eyes hard. "That could be the difference between the end of the world or getting to go around the sun one more time."

Martin stared at him but nodded, chastened.

Satisfied, Nathan returned his attention back to the screen and kept his eyes locked on the Groom, watching as he dumped – no – gently laid the Virgin down on the sofa inside the cabin.

It was strange. Gluskin had never done _that_ before.

His brow furrowed when Gluskin began to sing again, sing that awful, creepy song. Only this time it wasn't low and haunting like it usually was, but strong and loud like a victory chant as he stepped out of the cabin and prowled toward the trio that remained. It was like the sick freak was _happy_. Like everything in his world was splendid and right.

_What happened?_ Nathan asked himself again, feeling like he'd missed something important. _Knowing_ he’d missed something important. _What the fuck happened?_

He didn't know, and all he could do was watch and wait for IT.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bye Jeremy! And with Eddie's sleeping beauty tucked away nice and safe I can't *imagine* what will happen to the rest. I wonder what will happen when Waylon wakes up?
> 
> Until tomorrow!


	4. The Order

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is a fun chapter, I hope you enjoy :]

Waylon groaned as unconsciousness spat him back out into a world of pain and foggy memories that lasted one groggy moment before thoughts of Jeremy and what he’d been doing assaulted him.

“Ah!” he screamed, scrambling, hands fisting and punching the air before quickly relocating to the vulnerable expanse of his body. It was dark and he was on something soft, but to his relief, his clothes were still on him. The notch on his belt was still exactly where he’d left it earlier and he didn’t feel ... well he didn’t feel like he’d been used or raped.

What he did feel, however, was tenderized like a piece of meat from all the sucker punches that asshole had given him while he’d been forcing Waylon down, and on top of that, his clothes were ... it was weird. It was like something had gotten on them. They were kind of stuck to him and tacky, some spots hardening, and the tackiness wasn’t just on his clothes but on his hands too.

“What the—?”

His voice didn’t reach very far, not when he realized that somehow he was back inside the cabin. Fumbling, he reached for a tiny dangly chain and yanked on it, forcing an old lamp to shed weak light.

It was enough for him to see that the stuff on his hands and clothes was blood. A _lot_ of blood. Dried on, rust-colored, and less than fresh, but what the hell did its freshness matter? The fact that it was dry was even worse because that meant whatever had happened had been some time ago, right? It had been a while.

It sent a chill down his spine because as he tried to remember, he recalled Jeremy beating him. The uncomfortable crush of foliage beneath him. Screaming for help and hands crawling under his clothes.

Silver eyes in the dark, and a low, melodic voice by his ear. A voice that hadn’t been Jeremy’s or anyone else he knew.

Panic raced through him and he jolted, falling onto the ground as he thought of everyone else. Remembered them calling his name before everything went dark.

“Lisa?” Waylon scrambled, his back colliding with an end-table, his head smashing into an edge and awakening even more abused flesh. “Miles? Chris?”

Doing everything he could, he tried to still his panicked breathing enough that he could hear sounds other than himself, and for a long, _long_ time he couldn’t hear anything. The AC was blowing, the cabin was quiet and empty, and he wasn’t sure if that was relieving or not because he couldn’t have gotten here by himself which meant someone had moved him. There was a black spot in his memory that wasn’t letting up and he was afraid now, really afraid.

Forcing himself to his feet, he started to scream, “Guys!”

He was wobbly and his throat ached bitterly, but he ignored it when all he could think of was that Jeremy – that _bastard_ – had to have gotten to the others. He must’ve killed that other guy — there _had_ been someone else, right? — and brought him to the cabin. But the others? Had Jeremy gone after the others? Why would that freak go after them? But then again, they were in a goddamn _cabin in the woods_. What better place to go crazy and start killing people?

He’d _said_ this place was a murder cabin and _he was right._

“Psycho,” Waylon breathed, hands shaking as sweat prickled painfully along his back as he burst out into the night air. Frantically he searched, all but tripping down the porch as his head spun with growing terror. "Lisa! Miles! Chris!"

There was nothing. Nothing, nothing, nothing, and the panic in his chest kept rising. Hope and horror flashed through his chest as he thought about the car. If it wasn’t there, then they were gone. If it _was_ here, they were still in the area because why would Jeremy leave when Waylon was a witness to murder, right? He hoped the car was gone and the others were safe. He hoped it was here, so he wasn't alone.

It was here. The others had to _be here_ somewhere.

He just had to find them.

"Lisa!" he screamed, and this time his voice carried high through the trees, and with nothing to go on he started running in the direction he last remembered them going during the _stupid_ hide and seek game. With each step he took his head throbbed like someone was hammering on it. Where were they? Where _were_ they! "Miles!"

He paused, trying to get his bearings, trying to remember what this area looked like when they’d gone swimming earlier when far to his left he heard a shrill scream.

Waylon's face pulled as dread ate at every nerve in his body. Lisa. That sounded like Lisa.

It might have been the worst sound he'd ever heard in his life.

The trees were flying past his vision and limbs and leaves tore at his skin as he sprinted through with a body that didn't want to listen to anything he said. Something was going on, something _bad,_ and Waylon didn't have time to think – there wasn't time for anything. He had to find Lisa and the others. They had to get out and away from Jeremy and whatever was fucking going on. These were the exact same steps he'd have to take if this was a stupid horror game and he _knew_ what he should do in those situations.

But this was real life, not a game. Anything could happen, the rules weren't the same, they didn't follow story logic, what if—?

He was thinking too much, he knew it and he was trying to stop, but the thoughts just made his anxiety skyrocket and in the end he resolved not to think at all. Keep it simple like he'd meant to and just ... _figure it out_ as he went.

All his thoughts came to a screeching halt when he stumbled over and came to a rolling stop beside Chris's lifeless corpse.

Waylon screamed, horrified as he scrambled back, but it hardly mattered because there was nothing around except blood and a butchered body. Blood was everywhere from a stab wound that gouged a massive hole through the big guy’s chest as a look of lingering agony remained etched on his slack face. It looked like he was beaten up, like there had been a fight because the area looked rough and destroyed.

But Chris was there, dead and gutted and leaking into the ground, the disgraceful scent of post-death defecation filling the air enough to trigger Waylon’s gag reflex. He was shaking, _badly,_ and he couldn't make his thoughts focus into anything resembling thought, self-preserving or otherwise. Chris, the ROTC candidate, was _here_ and he was dead.

Scuttling back in disbelief, his hand abruptly plunged into something thick, wet, and slightly warm and he jerked back and screamed again when he saw another body limp, facedown and twisted, stabbed through and gutted just like Chris had been. Blood, again, was everywhere, it was on _him_ now, and tears burned his eyes because none of this made sense. It couldn't possibly be real because that-that was _Miles._ And he was just as dead as Chris, his body already cooling.

What was going on? How had Jeremy killed them both? Chris was a _big guy_ ; Waylon couldn't believe Jeremy could've taken him down. And while Miles didn’t seem like he could fight for shit, that guy could _run_. Nothing should've been able to catch him, definitely not Jeremy.

But Miles would have stayed behind for Chris and him and Lisa. Waylon’s mind abruptly blanked and stuttered.

Where was Lisa?

"Lisa!" he screamed, but his voice was weak and pathetic and it was all he could do to get to his feet, to get _away_ from the dead, soulless eyes of his friends where they seemed to watch him. He tried again, but his voice wavered and broke as tears of fear and stress leaked out of his eyes as he searched. As he forced himself to search. "Lisa!"

He didn't want to hear it, he really didn't, but he listened as closely as he could for a scream. A breath. Someone calling his name. The darkness was dense, it was covering everything even though the light of the cabin made it as far as here. It was hard to see when everything was so dark under the clouded night sky. He _couldn't_ see.

But he could hear. Only it wasn't Lisa's voice he heard. The sound was low and melodic. Deep and steady. Not Jeremy.

It was singing.

And he didn't understand why it caused his stomach to tighten and that panicked part of his chest to ease and replace with giddy fluttering. The sensations were so conflicting, he was confused and frozen by it. He didn't want to go find the man who was singing, but he also ... God help him, he also _did_. _Badly_. It didn't make any _sense_ because he was terrified. His friends had been murdered. He couldn't even _find_ one of them right now and he was beaten and sure he was going to die and—

The sound of that voice made him feel so _fucking_ safe.

Unable to stop himself, he went in the direction of the sound, closer to the cabin, closer to _him,_ and as he did the singing grew louder. More distinct. Understandable.

The melody he abruptly realized was familiar.

_"When I was a boy my mother often said to me, get married son and see how happy you will be. I've looked all over, but no girlie can I find, who seems to be like the little girl I have in mind."_

Waylon froze, but it was already too late. He'd burst out of the tree line and into the cabin’s porch lights just as his mind caught up and told him _where_ he'd heard that song before. It hadn't been sung, but it had been played, and the noise he made caused a man standing over the dying body of Lisa – oh God, _Lisa_ – holding a massive knife dripping with blood to look up. His eyes flashed in the darkness like a beast’s and Waylon jerked and stumbled and fell to the ground _terrified._

"Oh God," he whispered, staring up at the man in front of him covered in the blood of his friends, face and white dress-shirt stained red at the cuffs. "Lisa."

His voice choked, and suddenly he wondered if it had been Jeremy at all. Suspected that whatever had happened, it _hadn't_ been Jeremy, at least ... at least not these murders. Now that he thought back, didn't he remember seeing flashing eyes in the darkness? Hearing that _song,_ the same one from that fucked up music box down in the basement?

What if it was him? This guy right in front of him with the knife and the blood. What if it had always been him?

Irrationally he wondered why he'd woken up in the cabin, safe and sound.

The man stared at him, and to Waylon's absolute terror he surged to his feet and moved his way, singing that fucking _song_ again. He looked like something out of a twisted nightmare. Blood spattered his tailored clothing, dotted his face and vanished into dark hair that tapered at the sides to an impressive undercut. Muscles shifted and bulged under expertly fitted pants and dress shirt before shifting into a jagged though impressively made sewn vest that pulled at Waylon's eyes and made him trace every line. A bowtie sat at the base of his neck and it struck him that this, in some sick, perverted way, was an attempt at dressing up. Like a psycho had found some needle and thread and made an insane and impressive attempt.

The murderer prowled forward, knife dripping blood from his most recent kill – from _Lisa_ – and his heart was racing but what could he do? Jeremy’s SUV was past the guy, and Waylon wasn't as fast as Miles was. He was small sure, and he could work that to his advantage. But with this freak staring down at him like he couldn't _wait_ to stab him – like he was all but ripping him apart with his eyes – Waylon couldn't move.

And as inappropriate and unwanted as it was, he was _hard as fuck_. This guy was terrifying, going to kill him, but he was turning Waylon on harder than he’d ever been turned on in his life.

Irrationally, the whisper in his head that was somehow louder now said, _Fucking finally_ _._

But frozen as he was, this was it. He was going to die. Like all his friends stabbed to death in these stupid woods, their blood soaking the dirt, he was going to _die_ here on the same long knife that had killed them all wielded by this massive psychotic lunatic. He’d been _right_. He’d been right about all of it.

This insane murderer was standing over him, eyes filled with violence and madness shining impossibly in the porchlight. They gleamed like a predator’s eyes and all Waylon could think was tapetum lucidum. Night vision. But that was impossible. All of this was impossible. Why was he _even thinking_ about what was possible or not when his friends were dead and he was about to _die_. This was only supposed to be a vacation. A final hurrah before real life started.

He guessed, in a way, it was a final hurrah of sorts.

Terror made every muscle shake, like the connection Waylon had to his body was being distorted. He managed to crawl back, slowly gaining a foot of distance, but he yelped when his back slammed into the trunk of a tree. It hadn’t hurt, it had been nothing but blunt force but, hell, there was a madman standing over him. Who the fuck knew what else was out here? Maybe even the trees were in on it too, the _whole forest_ , because _where were the goddamned crickets?_

“What are you—?” Waylon babbled before he realized he knew the answer to that question. “Please,” he tried again, desperate and scrambling for half a hope. “Don’t—!”

He was fast, whoever this man was, and Waylon was glad that he’d pissed earlier in the evening because he was sure he’d have pissed himself now, right before death. Not that it mattered. He slammed his eyes shut and flinched, waiting for the same pain that had taken the others. They’d been speared through the heart, butchered and splayed open and that was in his future too. How could it not be?

A massive hand, burning hot, slipped under his shoulders and to his _utter_ astonishment, he was lifted. Supported. His hands flailed but he didn’t know where to put them, where was safe, and that became the least of his worries when he found the distance between the mass murderer and himself had dropped to mere inches.

The psycho gave him a relieved smile.

“Darling!”

Waylon balked. “What—?”

He leaned closer, the blood spatter across the man’s face unmistakable, his eyes glinting with madness. "Have you recovered? I’d hoped to spare you the ugliness of these useless _whores_ since I understand your sensibilities might be delicate tonight of all nights. I hope you can find it in your heart to forgive your dear groom."

Waylon was so startled by what the psycho had just said that his mouth ran away from him before his thoughts had time to gather themselves and scream.

"My-my groom?"

"Of course!" he said, a pleased smile on his lips. "I tried to take care of them quickly. I didn’t want any of these _whores_ attempting to corrupt you. Hurt you," his voice softened, and the madness slipped away a fraction. "I was worried they might convince you to change your mind."

“Ch-change my mind?” he stuttered, still trying and failing to understand and this guy, this ... Groom nodded earnestly.

“Surely you haven’t?” The big hand under Waylon’s shoulders literally supporting his body tightened around his small frame. The muscles of the Groom’s arm bulged under the dress shirt and Waylon resolutely tried ignoring the inappropriate and unwanted thrill that shot through him. “Because if you have, Darling, if those _sluts_ have made you change your mind—"

“No! No, of course not!” Waylon said quickly, the first thing he could think of. If playing along would buy him some time so he could figure out how to escape and get away from this psycho nightmare, then he would say just about anything. Especially if it meant avoiding that long knife. "Th-they couldn't change my mind if they tried." He gave a quick, terrified grin before adding, "Babe."

"Darling," the Groom sighed in astonishment before suddenly tugging him into a tight embrace. Waylon had to struggle not to think about the flat length of the blade stuck between them and how any wrong move would cause it to cut into his chest, nor the way his dick all but jumped with interest at the deadly attention. "You've made me the happiest man with your words. You have no idea how long I've waited for them."

"What can I say?" he all but squeaked because gathered up like this he was so small against the other man. It wouldn't take anything at all to kill him. "Could you, uh, put me down?" Waylon asked, trying to put some distance between his impending doom and the raging hard-on in his pants. "I mean, I'm filthy, and—"

"Nonsense!" the Groom said before he straightened and stood up, lifting Waylon in his arms as easily as if he weighed nothing, and it made his head light. Sure, he was a small guy and he'd been manhandled a few times in his life. But it had always been people fucking around, being assholes about how small he was and _proving_ how small he was just to make fun of him.

The way this guy lifted him, it made him blush despite the horror. He was strong. And despite the knife, he was also careful. He didn't lift him like this to manhandle him.

He did it to gently carry him.

"You're perfect, Darling," the Groom said as he nuzzled Waylon's neck. "Filthy? Never. The others?" The flicker of madness that flashed across the man's eyes immediately made Waylon's hands clench the fabric under his fingers out of panic. "Those whores? There was no saving them. I'm just so relieved I got to you before they did."

Whatever Waylon had thought would happen next, he had not anticipated that he would be carried anywhere, and while at first he thought it would be back toward the cabin, it wasn’t. He swallowed hard, eyes darting from the corpses on the ground to the SUV and the freedom it promised behind them. Soon the cabin vanished from sight and he was growing incredibly sure that he was going to die soon. He had to escape somehow, he had to get out and get free. There was no saving the others, but he might still be able to save himself and get some sort of justice for whatever was happening here.

But like this, in the arms of this massive murderer that had killed the likes of Chris Walker without appearing to be bothered, Waylon wasn't sure how he'd do it without getting murdered himself.

"W-what are you doing? Where are we going?" he forced himself to ask, searching for any advantage he might be able to play now or in the future. "Babe?"

"I'm afraid we don't have long," the Groom said solemnly before he gave Waylon a decidedly charming smile that both unnerved him and made the situation somehow easier. "But it's okay. We're going to be all right. As a matter of fact, if we hurry I think we will be right on time."

"On time for what?" he asked, voice wavering as the Groom stepped onto a path Waylon hadn’t seen before. It wasn’t a long one, and at the end of it was a large shed that made his blood run cold. Unable to stop himself, he clenched harder on the Groom’s shirt, unable to do anything except watch as the madman carried him inside after unlocking the door. Crossing the threshold.

"Why, for our wedding, of course," the man sighed adoringly. "And while I know it's not traditional and that we couldn't invite guests, in the end it's better this way, isn't it? What bride does not secretly imagine eloping with their groom?"

"Bride?" he whispered, terrified and transfixed, but the whisper was overwhelmed by the sound of the Groom kicking the door shut, cutting out the world before locking it behind them.

* * *

**BELOW**

Nathan let out a sigh of relief because _yes_. Another solid win for their branch because the sacrificial order had been maintained. The Virgin was still somehow alive at the end of it all. The Groom was going to murder Waylon Park because that was what the Groom _always_ did to his bride selects, and the world would keep spinning, safe and sound as it was supposed to be.

"I mean, we were already doing great, but if we hadn't been it would’ve been a close one this year," Martin said as he checked the logs from all the other locations across the world. "Seems like everyone else had a hard time, even the Japanese. Everything was riding on us."

"This one was in the bag," Nathan claimed again, though secretly he was trying to come down from what he'd been _sure_ was a likely heart attack. It was always like this the closer to the end of the ritual. He couldn't control everything after all, and he'd learned that sometimes all that was left to do was pray.

But it was fine. It was all fine now. Another job well-done. By dawn they'd be wrapping up, he'd go home, get drunk, and then take a nice two-week vacation before he came back to gear up for next year's sacrifice. That was how it always went.

He glanced over at Martin to tell him that he'd done great this year too, despite the earlier hiccups, but what he'd meant to say died and was replaced with concern when he saw Martin's pinched face.

"What is it?"

"I ... I don't know. It's probably nothing, it's just-you know earlier when the feed got damaged?"

"You mean with the Whore?" Nathan didn't want to ask, but he wasn't stupid enough not to. "What about it?"

"Well, IT just sent me the footage. It seems like they managed to clean it up a bit, and, well—"

The words seemed to be stuck in Martin's throat, and it was by this point that Nathan's heartrate was spiking again, that potential heart attack returning to the horizon of his anxiety.

"What _is_ it, Marty?"

Martin's face was pale. "The Whore," he said, hands shaking as he hit a switch so the massive monitor in front of them began to play the missing footage. "It wasn't Gluskin, Nate. Gluskin didn't kill Blaire."

Dread and bewilderment flooded Nathan.

"What do you _mean_ the Groom didn't kill the Whore?"

In the back of his mind he heard Martin stammering an explanation, but it was easy to tune him out when he could see it for himself right there on the big screen. IT had done their job and the visual was clean even if the audio was still crackly, and what he saw caused ice to encase his stomach.

On the screen he saw Gluskin throw himself at Jeremy, pulling him off Waylon. He saw them tussle and fight, saw Gluskin beat Jeremy down like he was some prizefighter, like he would do _anything_ to make sure Jeremy died at his fists. He looked furious. Nathan had never seen the Groom so enraged. Jeremy had been down on the ground, Gluskin over him with his knife ready and eager.

Jeremy Blaire pulled out a gun and tried to shoot the Groom.

"He had a _gun_ with _live rounds_?” he exclaimed. “I thought only Chris had a gun, and it had blanks!"

Someone responded but Nathan still wasn't paying attention. He watched as Gluskin ducked and dodged but lost hold of the knife. He watched as Jeremy rose to his feet, trying to find the Groom so he could shoot him again.

Nathan watched as Waylon Park picked up the Groom's knife and stabbed Jeremy Blaire in the back.

"Oh no," Nathan breathed hoping something would change, that _this wasn't happening_ , but it was exactly what it looked like. Waylon was screaming, stabbing Jeremy again and again until the Whore fell to his knees, gun slipping out of his hand and into the dense grass where it vanished from sight. Even then, Waylon kept stabbing and screaming, striking Jeremy over and over again in the heart as if _he_ were the Groom while the real Groom watched on like it was all he could possibly bring himself to do.

But Waylon wasn't the Groom. And the reality of what had happened tore at him.

Nathan lost it. "The _Virgin_ killed the Whore?"

"Does that count?" Martin asked, sweat covering his brow. "Nate? Does that count? The Whore died first, it has to count even if the Virgin kills them, right? Nate!"

"No!" Nathan all but screamed as his mind raced because all the other facilities had failed, and the world was going to end now. Oh, God, they hadn’t succeeded. It was all going to end. "It doesn't count! The ritual has to follow _specific_ rules, and one of those rules is that the Whore _has_ to be killed by the monster. Bottom line, no ifs, ands, or buts about it. Any of the others could've been murdered by Park for all it mattered, but _not the Whore_."

Around the room others were starting to whisper, starting to shift, starting to panic as the reality that they'd _failed_ just like everyone else around the world had was sinking in. The ritual had gone sideways. It had gone _wrong_. The Ancient Ones would rise, the world would end, they would all _die_.

All because of a damaged feed, someone on prep hadn't done their job right when they'd been overseeing Jeremy's packing list, and Psych apparently missing the _massive_ murder tendencies this year's Virgin had been hiding. Phobophilia? How about full-on _psycho._

"Nate, what do we do?" Martin demanded, alarm edging his voice. "What do we do, Nate. There has to be something we can do."

The others were asking the same thing, they were on the verge of bolting, panicking, the world was _ending,_ and Nathan pressed his mind as hard as he could because no. It couldn’t end like this. There had to be _something_. Something was missing. He reviewed everything he knew about tonight. About the sacrifices and the situation and the Groom and—

His thoughts came to a screeching halt as he thought about the Groom and everything he knew about that monster. For as long as Nathan had been working here, the Groom had been trying to find his Bride. He'd always thought that that was just part of the creature's programming, that that was just what Gluskin _did._ Try to find a bride, then kill them in the end. That was what he _always_ did.

But the Groom was acting differently this year, he'd seen it multiple times now. Unnatural fury, surprising tenderness, a fixation on Waylon that had persisted the entire night when in other sacrifice clusters his amorous attentions had shifted from victim to victim to victim without discrimination before they’d all turned sour. What if it meant something? What if this mishap with the Whore had caused something in the Groom to settle? To decide.

What if the Groom program was about to change? What if Waylon was a part of the change? All night Waylon had been strange too. _He’d_ summoned the Groom. He’d killed Jeremy, effectively stopping Blaire from killing Gluskin. What if it _meant_ something? What if—

It all clicked into place, the situation coming into crystal-clear focus, and he understood what was going on. And better yet, he knew what he needed to do.

Nathan bolted upright, the motion causing everyone and everything in the room to freeze. He looked at them all with every bit of seriousness he had because he couldn't do this alone. There wasn’t time. He _needed_ them.

"Do you all want to save the world, or not?"

The silence that echoed back at him was telling, and although he could see the nervous jitters that crossed every face, not one of them moved. No one ran. Although Nathan's palms were sweaty and near shaking with fear, he drew strength and courage from the display.

After giving them a firm stare, he decided on the plan.

"All right, guys and gals. The earth takes another lap around the sun if we do this right. It all rests on our shoulders, and I need you to pay attention to this because _this is it_. The only thing that will save everything. The gameplay?" He swallowed hard and forced himself to say it. "It's 'Can You Feel the Love Tonight'."

Martin's jaw dropped. The room exploded.

"What? You can't be serious!"

"There’s no pheromone gas, there’s no way—!"

"Can't believe everyone else has dropped the ball—"

"Shut up!" Nathan yelled, and immediately the room dropped into silence again. He glowered at them all. "I know it won't be easy. I know the safety of the world is on our shoulders and this is crazy—believe me, I _know_. But everyone. This is the only way. All of our lives are on the line. Our loved ones are on the line, so I'm deathly serious when I say this."

Nathan sat in his seat at the lead terminal, a signal to all the others to get their asses in their chairs and do their job. Slowly they did, and he nodded at them before taking a settling breath.

"The world is saved if the Groom gets laid by the Virgin tonight. So we’re going to host the finest wedding of our lives."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh man. It's coming. The chapter I know you've all been waiting for, and what better day to post it than Halloween! It should be fun ;]
> 
> Till tomorrow!


	5. The Turn

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy Halloween everyone! Today is the day, the chapter I know you've all been waiting for. It's nice and long and chocked full of ... well, all sorts of things ;] 
> 
> I hope you all enjoy! Now, who's ready for a wedding?

The moment the door closed behind him, Waylon knew he wasn’t going to survive this. There was no way. Every horror movie and survival game he’d ever seen or played could never have prepared him for what he was enduring right now. _Nothing_ could have prepared him for this.

His cheeks burned hot and he wasn’t sure if the tight fear coiling in his stomach was hampering or igniting the searing lust throbbing in his blood.

_Stupid confused biology._

“Well, Darling?” the Groom asked almost bashfully as he gently placed Waylon on his feet. “I’ve thought about this for ... for so long. I could only dream that this day would come. That you’d _honor_ a humble man such as I.”

Waylon swallowed, trying to understand, but he was in shock — he had to be because none of this _made sense_. His friends were dead, he was in the middle of a real-life horror with the biggest, hottest, craziest man he’d ever met, and his animal brain had clicked on so fast there was _no way_ the psycho _couldn’t_ see how hard he was, _no way—!_

_Focus, Waylon,_ he told himself firmly. _Do you want to survive this, or not?_

He did. But he was fucking terrified right now and his thoughts kept fracturing and repeating. Because everyone else was _dead_ , and their blood was on the freak’s knife, on his face and suit and on _him_ and—

God _damn_ him, he’d never been so hot in his life.

“W-what was that?” Waylon asked before alarm flashed through him and he quickly added, “Babe?”

To his horror and elation, the massive hand that had so easily supported him earlier curled around the back of his neck. A gritty thumb stroked the sensitive skin there tenderly enough to make him shiver.

“Your wedding dress,” the Groom said softly, the words reverent. “I know, it’s out of style. But I just couldn’t bear the idea of you in anything other than ... perfection. And while I know I am not perfect, I would _never_ disgrace you with anything another dressmaker, a _slut_ would create for you.” His glowing eyes softened. “I would never do that to you."

"That's so …" Waylon said as he frantically searched for the right word. Fucked up? Crazy? Dreadfully charming? "Thoughtful."

"You're too kind," he breathed, and the look of adoration in his creepy glowing eyes made Waylon sure he was about to kiss him. But to his relief – astonishment, dismay, disappointment – the Groom pulled away, but not far. Not far enough Waylon thought he could dart around the bigger man and out the door. Not far enough that the Groom wouldn’t catch him before he even touched the lock.

A light abruptly filled the space and he realized for the first time that it was a craft shed of some kind, an old-time tailor’s workshop with dusted bolts of fabric standing in the corner, an antique sewing machine set up on the work table along the wall. There were mannequins in various states of dress and disrepair, one with sheers and needles and blood and – God, really he didn't want to know what else – sticking out of it. But the light wasn't really meant for any of that.

There, at the center of it all, orange light shining down through a haze of dust that cast everything in a strange layer of ancient mystique and terrible mystery, was a dress. A surprisingly stunning white dress.

A wedding gown.

"I know it isn’t much," the Groom said as his massive hands slipped around to hold Waylon's small shoulders in a grip that was gentle but unyielding. "But do you like it? Please say you do."

"I—" Waylon said because he didn't know what to say. Frankly, he was speechless. A wedding dress? The rollercoaster of the evening was getting to him because in his shocked mind this _almost_ made sense. After all, there was a groom, and a dress. All that was needed was a bride.

And obviously, that was him.

The Groom didn't wait for him to finish. Instead he moved past Waylon toward the dress, and like this, Waylon saw his opening for escape. He even took half a step back, glancing over his shoulder because the exit was _right there_. He could do it. He had a chance.

The surprising scent of fresh air from a vent he hadn’t noticed swept a clean, crisp, and beautifully pure gust in that swept away the aged air and distracted him. It was so unexpected and refreshing that he paused, confused, his motions going slack as he stared at that vent. Breathed in a scent so pure and calming. Free of death and dust and reminding him of life and nature and pure, lovely things.

It was then that he realized he’d paused and that his window of opportunity had slipped away. To his dread, the Groom was looking back at him, waving him closer. Closer to danger and away from the escape he might have had.

If Waylon bolted now, he didn't have to guess where the knife that was still in the Groom’s hand would go. This guy looked like all it would take was one wrong move and he'd be happy to kill him like he'd killed all the others.

So Waylon forced his feet forward, trying to focus on survival, finding another opportunity to escape, about doing _everything_ he could to get off this fucking mountain and away from this _nightmare_. But his eyes kept tracing the way this man’s arms bulged below the spattered dress shirt and the long lines of his powerful thighs under his slacks. The blood on his strong chin and the adoring look in his mad eyes.

Waylon hated how a part of him wanted to move closer.

"Try it on," the Groom said, pulling on ribbons before carefully lifting the flowing white fabric from the mannequin with unbelievable gentleness. "I could only guess your size, I tried my best—"

"You want me to put it on?" Waylon asked – terrified, in awe, aroused – as his hands reached out, shaking ever so slightly until the fabric was pressed into them. Through the fabric the Groom's touch was warm and solid, holding his hands tightly.

"Of course," he said, madness glinting once again in his eyes. "I have to make sure it fits."

"I kind of like what I'm wearing now," Waylon said, unable to stop himself even as he clenched the dress's silky material in his hands. It felt like if he gave up his clothes, the insanity that was all around him would get _in_ because this couldn't be real. This had to be a dream. None of this made sense and it also made weird sense, and—

The Groom's face darkened. Suddenly the bigger man was closer, and it seemed like there was no air to breathe. No space to move. Like he'd just made a critical error.

"You _don't_ want to wear it?"

Waylon scrambled, pulling on a terrified smile and grasping at whatever excuse would save his life. "I mean, of course I do, babe! I'm just—" he glanced around, trying to find inspiration. An answer that would keep that blade from sinking into his chest like it had everyone else. "—embarrassed! I'm just embarrassed."

A look of confusion broke the darkness before a light of understanding settled across the Groom’s face. With the blood there he looked frightening, but the smile he gave was nothing but warmth. "Oh Darling, you don't have to be embarrassed with me. But I understand a bride has her vanities. Don't worry. You're perfect." His eyes turned sultry and coy. "And you won't be wearing the dress for long anyway."

That should have made Waylon freeze with fear, but instead it was all he could do not to moan at the thought as his body heated with excitement. How many times had he jerked off to fantasies _like this_? How many horror game antagonists had he admired and imagined would look at him like this? How many times had he wanted to put on a dress, be a bride, and then be _taken?_

God, he was so fucked up. This shouldn’t be arousing him, but it _was._

"Okay," Waylon said, voice breathy. "But, uh, turn around." When the Groom gave him a darkened glower, Waylon added, "You wouldn't want to ruin the surprise, would you?"

It worked like a charm and the Groom's countenance brightened. "Of course not, Darling, you're quite right. Here," he said, moving around Waylon to give him space before turning his back. "Let me know if you need any help."

"Thanks, babe," Waylon said, though his face fell when he saw that the Groom had positioned himself between Waylon and the door. With little else to do, Waylon steeled himself and mechanically slipped out of his shirt. While the air earlier had been chilly, he was surprised to find that it was balmy now, comfortable, though his heated skin made the distinction stark and his nipples pucker. He blushed hard, ignoring his arousal as he slipped the dress down over his head and shoulders.

It was a sleeveless number, the bust rising up over his chest, but also surprising him because where there should've been room for a bust, it lay flat and comfortable across him like it had been meant for someone flat-chested ... or male. There were ribbons stitched up the back of the dress that tightened, but no matter what he did, it wouldn't lay right with his jeans on underneath. Only he _did not_ want to take them off, especially in his commando state.

"Is everything all right, Darling?"

"Great! Everything's great, almost done!" he said, voice high and tight and before he could think about it he shucked his jeans off and prayed he’d made the right decision. If he didn't, the risk was higher that he wouldn't survive, and he _had_ to get through this. Everything within him screamed that he had to.

Though he was horrified to find that there was a part of him that _wanted_ to.

Ignoring that traitorous whisper, he adjusted the skirt and hoped this guy wouldn't notice the tent he was making hidden in all the folds. But whereas the bust of the dress fit him almost perfectly when it was laced up, the bottom trailed in what felt like yards all around him, clearly meant for a taller bride. He tried to correct it, prayed it was just his imagination, but it wasn't. Distressingly, the dress was too long on him.

He prayed it wouldn’t be the detail that damned him.

"All right," he said hesitantly, feeling bare and exposed in ways he'd never felt before. He'd never worn a dress before, let alone a sleeveless one and without underwear. This was all sorts of embarrassing and uncomfortable. All sorts of kinky, fucked up, and hot. "It's really long though, and ..."

His voice slipped away as the Groom turned and looked at him, and Waylon could only stare back. This blood-spattered man looked at him like he was seeing the sun for the first time. Like he was the only thing in the world.

For a brief moment, Waylon _felt_ like he was the only thing in the world.

"It's perfect," the Groom finally breathed as he stepped closer, eyes sliding along him in a way that made Waylon's thoughts quiet and his cheeks blush with heat. Their eyes met and the Groom's voice was reverent. "Darling, you're astounding."

Waylon didn't think when he responded. "You think so?"

"Yes," the Groom said, moving closer, his hands hovering but never touching, and this close Waylon noticed all of the stitching. Well, of course he'd seen the stitches, at least in the Groom's clothing, but it was only now that he saw it in the wedding gown as well. Like their clothes had been made desperately and carefully out of bits and pieces, crafted with what he'd had instead of what he could get. Their clothing wasn't flawless, the stitches were jarring and stark, noticeable, bold, terrible lines.

But the Groom’s suit and Waylon's dress, they were so impeccably tailored that the workmanship involved left him in stunned awe.

Waylon was breathless. He couldn't help it as the words slipped out. “We match.”

The smile that crossed the Groom’s face was like magnificence on a terrible day.

“You like it?”

The rational part of his brain was horrified because _no_. No, he did not like it. It was a sewn-together monstrosity. A mockery of a real bride’s wedding dress just as the Groom’s suit was to a wedding tuxedo.

But it wasn’t his rational mind that responded. Instead his fingers traced the unrelenting stitch-work, savored the smooth, decadent satin, marveled that something in this hellhole could be so ... so white. So pristine.

_It’s horrible,_ the dying reason of his mind screamed.

“It’s beautiful,” he said, that dark thing in him rising higher, sublimely charmed. “I’ve never seen anything like it.”

“You like it,” the Groom said, his massive hands abruptly covering Waylon’s, holding them, squeezing them tighter than Waylon thought he could stand. “You really like it?”

Waylon couldn’t help but smile, his inner darkness warring with his scared rationality. “Well ... yeah.”

Tears lined the murderer’s glowing eyes and he clung to Waylon’s hands hard enough the small bones there rolled, and it was all he could do to keep from wincing.

“My darling, you’ve made me so happy.” The Groom’s eyes locked on Waylon like he was all that mattered in the world. “It's time then.”

Waylon stared, once again trying to understand.

"Time for what?"

The Groom only smiled before he stepped back and took a more critical look at him, frowning at the extra length.

"You're right, it is a bit long, isn't it? Not to worry, that's easy enough to correct." Those glowing eyes studied the rest of him, gliding up his body, stopping long and hard on his chest, so long that Waylon felt exposed and blushed harder, hard enough that the Groom smirked and _winked_ at him, before continuing his examination. "Your hair is so short, Darling."

Dread flashed through Waylon, and quickly he asked, "You don't like it?"

"It's ... different," the Groom said diplomatically. "Perhaps something you could grow out? Or … perhaps something I could get used to?"

"Oh, good," Waylon said, relief flashing though him that his groom – _the_ Groom, he immediately mentally corrected – didn’t hate it. "I was worried."

The Groom smiled adoringly. "Never be worried, Darling. You're perfect in my eyes."

Waylon believed him, and his dark heart melted. His sanity screamed.

The Groom knelt down and to Waylon’s terror lifted the knife again, but it wasn't meant for him. Instead he carefully took a foot or so off the bottom edge, ripping and sheering with experienced hands that only made the dress look even better in its terrible, horrible way.

"There," the murderer said as he straightened. "Almost finished."

"Almost?" Waylon hazarded. What could he possibly be missing? He was dressed in a wedding gown. What else was there?

He reached past Waylon's head, causing them to momentarily press against each other, and Waylon couldn't help how his eyes darted up to the other man's. The Groom seemed surprised too before he smirked seductively, the blood on his face twisting and highlighting handsome features in gore.

Waylon’s throat went dry. Fuck.

Waylon was suddenly so desperate for something to stabilize himself that he reached back and placed his hand on a counter, but the counter gave out and he stumbled. The Groom's eyes widened and an arm darted out for him, but not before Waylon hit the wall, knocking into it hard enough that something fell from above.

Involuntarily he covered his head, anticipating something heavy falling and cracking his skull wide open, because at this point, why wouldn't it?

But nothing heavy fell on him. As a matter of fact, whatever it was dropped onto him soft as a sheen of dust, and when he tentatively opened his eyes, all he saw was the Groom's eyes widen in surprise. But then he blinked and an amused smirk crossed his lips. He gave Waylon a small laugh.

"Well, that's actually quite nice, if you don't mind me saying."

"What?" Waylon said, but as he straightened he saw that he was now sparkling, dusted with a faint sheen of glitter from a bottle that had fallen over him. It was in his hair and on his shoulders and all across his dress, and dismayed he tried to wipe and shake it off. But it wasn't only glitter that was on him, there were dried rose petals too. They got stuck in the folds of the dress, clung to errant stitches and gifted him with a faint floral scent that was dark and tantalizing. It was everywhere and all over him. There was nothing he could do.

"Gorgeous," the Groom said before something else settled onto his crown and suddenly his vision was gently veiled. A wedding veil. The smile the other man gave him was radiant. "Perfect."

Waylon wasn't sure, but if anyone looked at him like this guy was looking at him, he'd have felt pretty fucking perfect too.

A large hand slipped under his smaller one and held it gently, tugging him forward and then out of the shed. Waylon wasn't sure, it was a forest and all, but it seemed like everything was somehow … manicured and brighter. Bewildered, he realized it _was_ brighter because in the time they were inside, the sky had cleared. A full moon now blazed with intensity for them.

He didn’t know where the Groom was taking him, but he followed him onto another path he hadn’t noticed before. It was also strangely well-tended to as well. There were no leaves underfoot, the trees seemed to curve elegantly above them like the steeples of a chapel, and in the distance he could see a clearing lit with a pair of tasteful torches. The ground was green and vibrant. A plush white carpet led up to what could only be a small outdoor wedding chapel.

It was beautiful. He moved in a stunned daze until they stopped at the beginning of the carpet, and it was then that Waylon snapped out of his thoughts and realized what was about to happen. The Groom let go of his hand and straightened his vest and bowtie, smoothed the ink-black slick of dark hair before tugging his bloody sleeve-cuffs into place.

"Can you believe it, Darling? I've been dreaming of this day for so long." He took a deep, stabilizing breath before smiling at Waylon. "But it's happening. Our wedding is finally here."

Terror, nervousness, fear, tentative hope, _elation,_ his emotions were a miasma writhing in his chest because this guy _really_ believed they were getting married, and Waylon would have to play the part if it meant he kept on breathing. He was about to be a _bride_ for this psycho, all to stay alive!

It was one of his sickest, kinkiest, darkest fantasies and he was going straight to hell if he died at the end of all this.

Once the Groom had finished grooming himself, he turned to Waylon, hand extended. "Well, Darling. Are you ready?"

_No_ , he thought as hard as he could because this was wrong. Where was his dignity? This was getting too weird and too real, and he shouldn't _do_ this, even if it killed him.

"Yes," he said instead, sticking his hand in the Groom’s and letting the Groom place it in the crook of his arm because this was how he saved himself, right? This was how he got to keep breathing. Live another day. That's what he told himself as his stomach flip-flopped with anxiety, and why his heart raced because this was _happening_.

It was to save his life. That's what he kept telling himself.

The honest part of him snarled he was a liar.

The dark part was thrilled and _ready._

"Here we go then," the Groom said, before taking a step onto the carpet, Waylon moving with him.

The walkway seemed to extend forever, and in a warped way he thought it might never end. That they would never make it to the end. He _hoped_ they would never make it to the end because it _started_ if they did. He didn’t want to go, but he did. He didn’t, he did, and he _just kept moving._

And then, in little more than the time it took to blink it seemed, they were at the end, standing under an arch of twisting vines and flowers.

The Groom reached for both his hands and held them gently, though there was a firmness that promised Waylon that if he tried to pull away, he wouldn't get far. "I know it's not traditional and that there's no priest to officiate, but, well, it's between hearts, isn't it? Who needs a priest or piece of paper when _we_ know we're married?”

"Right," Waylon said breathlessly, heart in his throat. "All that's bullshit anyway."

"Your _mouth,_ Darling," the Groom suddenly said, hands tightening as he leaned closer, and for an instant Waylon wondered if he'd said the wrong thing. If he was about to die like this, in a wedding dress about to pledge himself to the murderer of his friends to save himself. But then the Groom smiled, and it was tempting and sinful as his voice dropped to a low baritone Waylon felt all the way to his cock. "So filthy. I love it."

Waylon stared at the Groom and wondered how the _fuck_ he was going to survive this when it was clearly his dick driving his actions.

"You wanna do the vows?" Waylon abruptly asked, bold and daring. It was almost like he couldn’t control what he was saying. "Or do you want to skip it all and just get to the 'I do's'?"

"You are a _temptress_ , Darling. It's not traditional." But suddenly there was no space between them and he was held plastered against the Groom's front, Waylon’s hands scrambling to a broad chest to keep him balanced. "How could I possibly resist?"

"Oh, babe," he sighed, and it was only after that he wondered if it had been out of fear or want, because right now he wasn't sure. What the hell was going on? What was going on with _him_?

He didn't know, but for whatever reason it was starting not to matter. He clung to the Groom and he wasn't sure if it was to save his life or to feel him up.

"Babe, what's your name?"

"Eddie, Darling. Eddie Gluskin," Eddie sighed fondly. "You knew that."

"Of course I did," Waylon said perhaps a little cheekily, playing his part maybe more than he needed to. Maybe having fun. "You know my name, right? Waylon Park?"

"Of _course,_ " Eddie said with half a snort. "How could I forget the name of my beloved?"

He smiled before looping his arms up above the Groom's neck, and out of the corner of his eyes he thought he saw fireflies – but there were no fireflies in this area of the states, and it was out of season for them, _it didn't make sense_ – and admired how nice everything was. It really was a small, charming wedding, especially since there was nothing vulgar like blood or bodies to sully it.

"Then, Eddie Gluskin. Do you take me to be your—"

"I do," Eddie said eagerly. "And do you, Waylon Park, take me—"

"You know it, babe," Waylon said, a thrill racing his fear and he wasn't sure which won out in the end, but it didn't matter when the words fell out of his mouth. Even when he hadn't _meant_ to say them. "I do."

To Waylon's surprise, the Groom's eyes watered like this was more than he could believe. Like everything he'd ever wished for in the world was _at last_ his.

"Kiss the bride," Waylon suddenly whispered like he did in all his deepest, darkest fantasies, and it was like the words had come from someone else. Someone seductive and sinful, someone that was _not him_ , and something twisted deep inside of himself. Like he'd taken a step and he'd misjudged. Like he'd unexpectedly gone too far.

"Waylon," the Groom said. Slowly he reached up and lifted the veil over his crown before leaning forward and pressing his lips against Waylon's.

Something Waylon had never noticed within himself, something insidious and sinister that might have always been there, might have been patiently watching, waiting, aware all his life, _moved_.

The lips against his were wonderful, delightful, and the way Eddie was pressing against him sparked a fire that had only been waiting to catch ablaze. Waylon dug his fingers into the well-groomed length of Eddie's hair and the Groom reacted instantly. Waylon wondered what might have happened if there had been actual guests at this strange wedding because as much as Eddie talked about it, he did not seem to care about tradition or decency, not with the hard cock pressing heavily against Waylon's hip.

"Finally," Eddie breathed between the kisses as they heated and flared, Eddie's hands starting to move. "I've been waiting so long—"

"Don't make me wait longer," Waylon said. "We just got married." Waylon's eyes caught the Groom's and the lust that was boiling within him spiked, overwhelming everything. "Don't you want to consummate?"

"So _indecent_ ," Eddie growled but there was no doubt that his words had the desired effect because suddenly Waylon's feet weren't on the ground anymore, they were off it, completely supported by Eddie's big hands on his tight ass and the only thing that made this less than ideal was that the skirt of the dress was tangled up in his legs. He wanted to wrap around that thick torso, grind down on this psycho's hard body but he _couldn't_. Not with the dress in the way.

"Eddie," he said, riding a wave of need and pleasure that was doing wonders to fog his mind and keep his thoughts distracted from the horrors of the night. He'd never thought he'd actually _want_ a fucked-up fantasy like this but here he was spreading his legs for a murderer after a beautiful nightmare wedding.

_It's just so I can leave when he's distracted,_ he told himself as he kissed Eddie again, drawing him into something hot and sloppy as their tongues fought each other for dominance. _That's all._

"Darling," Eddie said like he was burning alive, and with a heave the bigger man grabbed hold of the dress that was wrapped so lovingly around his body and wrenched. Fabric tore, air assaulted his heated flesh, and Waylon's kinky animal brain practically howled in delight. Eddie was literally _ripping him_ out of his dress and removing it from his body as if he was an eager child unwrapping the best present.

Massive, calloused hands slid across his skin, stroking and grabbing, kneading and exploring and it was all Waylon could do to help. That didn't mean he got to wrap his legs around Eddie like he wanted. Instead the bigger man had him momentarily up in his arms before he settled them on the carpet like it was the most exquisite of blankets. Flat on his back like this, the veil fell off, and Waylon lay bare and exposed. Vulnerable.

Needy.

"Eddie," Waylon breathed as he worked his fingers quickly under the bowtie and pulled it off before tugging at his groom’s shirt and vest. "Take them _off_."

"Someone's eager, aren't they?" Eddie asked smugly, but it seemed that if he'd meant to go slow with him, such thoughts were long gone because he was already making quick work of his own clothes. In seconds the clothing that had jealously hidden the muscles Waylon had been eyeing were off and tossed to the side, and Waylon tried not to ogle too obviously. But he was only human, and really, who _couldn't_ ogle that?

Strong muscles, a dense, thick physique, the guy was clearly middle-aged but nature was treating him _very_ well and Waylon's hormone-addled brain could only take so much when this was literally everything he’d ever secretly wanted. Shamelessly he leaned forward, intent on catching those lips so he could _finally_ grind against that body and get some _relief_ , but Eddie surprised him. Instead he lifted him by the waist and twisted him quickly. Suddenly he was seated backward on Eddie's lap as the Groom spread his legs as if for the world to see.

Waylon's dick bobbed and precum was already leaking out of it, but his pleasure was suddenly fighting with terror because in this sick roleplay he was supposed to be the bride, and that usually meant _woman_. His dick standing tall in the night air ruined any illusion of that, and he'd come this far but what if Eddie didn't _like_ this? What if this psycho really believed he'd married a woman, and now was staring at his dick and realizing he hadn’t? Did he think Waylon lied? What would he do? Would he kill him? Would he cut his dick off? Was _this_ how he died?

"You minx," Eddie breathed into his ear as if he could hardly believe it while he ran his hands down Waylon's body, tracing his bare hips and pelvis while ignoring his weeping cock. "Were you that hot for me? Did you ache for me so badly that you couldn't be bothered to be married in anything other than indecency?"

Oh, underwear. That's what he meant. Had _not_ having it saved his life? Or did any of it matter? Because the way Eddie was looking at him made him think that it hardly mattered to this guy if he was a woman or not. He wondered if Eddie even noticed at all.

"You like it," Waylon moaned as his cock stood hot and proud in the night air, begging to be touched. If it was possible, Eddie's eyes glowed brighter at the sight. "You love it."

"Darling," Eddie said darkly. "It's driving me _wild_."

Waylon shouted and jolted when slickened fingers probed and then slipped into Waylon's ass, not one but two and it burned at first but then he couldn't help but adjust quickly because he'd been fingering himself just yesterday. He was already somewhat stretched out, but the lube? Where had _that_ come from?

"The lube?" he asked irrationally, and Eddie huffed a chuckle into his neck as he smiled.

"In my workshop. I didn't want our first time to be rough."

Eddie suddenly added a third finger, scissoring the thick, meaty digits within him enough to make Waylon squirm breathlessly. Eddie’s fingers were so much bigger than Waylon’s were, and it was too much too fast and it was also just-just not _enough_ either. That darkness within him, the thing that was waking up, taking over, it wanted _more._

It wanted _everything_.

Eddie changed the angle in his body, a finger going deeper and Waylon nearly screamed when it stroked his prostate.

"That's it, Darling," Eddie praised. "Be as loud as you like. No one will hear you."

He'd never been so vocal before, but how could he not be when Eddie was hitting him _just right_.

And then his fingers were gone.

"Eddie," Waylon whined, sliding an arm around the Groom’s neck before grabbing Eddie’s shoulder as he was lifted. He realized the absence of fingers only meant he'd cleared the way for something with much more substance. Waylon blushed hard enough his chest was red and below him he saw Eddie's thick cock curving up to meet his hole. He had to resist squirming as it burned at his entrance, bigger than anything Waylon had ever taken.

"Eddie," he said, trying to decide whether to bolt or to take. "Eddie, I—"

"Settle, Darling," Eddie said, voice tight with need and restraint. Dark with insanity and desire. "I know you can take it."

"Open me up a little more," Waylon said suddenly. "I've never taken anything as big as you—"

"Which is exactly how it should be," Eddie said darkly before he angled Waylon's small body so a nipple was right at mouth height. "I'll never let _anyone_ touch you." Teeth brushed his skin. "You're _mine_."

With that, Eddie let gravity do the work of dragging Waylon down. Just the tip of Eddie's dick slipped past the lubed ring of Waylon's stretched muscles, and as the mushroomed tip slipped in the Groom bit down on his nipple and sucked.

A shout of shock and pleasure bolted through Waylon, and the jolt caused him to sink further on the Groom’s slickened dick. It burned, but it was brief and good and soon enough it was disappearing as he adjusted.

"Eddie!" he moaned, and oh God, he felt like he was going to burst. This was never supposed to happen, he hadn't _meant_ for his to happen, had he? He'd been aroused and shocked, and maybe a part of him thought he could get away with this just being roleplay for the sake of survival. That it wasn’t anything real.

But this wasn't roleplay, and if he was being honest, he _wanted_ this. This, all of this _was_ real and everything he'd ever dreamed of when he was alone in his room, lonely and horny getting off on _stupid_ horror games like it was the only way he _could_ get off, because, in a real way, _it was_. He needed the edge, but not just a kinky edge. He needed a dangerous, terrifying one to really get going.

This, fucking a serial killer who'd made him his _bride_ , was a direct link to every pleasure center in his mind and body.

_Oh my God,_ he sobbed in his head as Eddie's teeth toyed with his nipple and his big hands controlled the rest of Waylon’s body. He never even _liked_ it when others messed with his nipples, but this? Every drag of those teeth across that pebbled bit of flesh seemed to go straight to his untouched cock, and he was practically shaking with need, harder than he'd ever been. _I'm so turned on, this is really fucked up._

The thought just made him harder because it _was_ fucked up, _he_ was fucked up because who got off on this? Real freaks, that's who, and even as he thought that, his hips shifted and suddenly-suddenly he slipped down and he gasped, shocked and half-scared because this was fast, it was really fast! A bright flash of panic flooded him because he hadn’t meant for this to happen. This was _real_ and it was _happening_ , his friends were _dead_ and—!

"Oh, Waylon," Eddie said as he looked up at him with lust and madness. "My Waylon."

And before Waylon had time to react, Eddie thrust in all the way, fully seating him and filling him fuller than he’d _ever_ been. His mind blanked. His panic vanished. Gratuitous pleasure flooded him, and he was astonished that his mind didn’t flash to its usual places, the ones that got him hottest. How could they? All the other times he’d fucked himself on his dildo’s or fooled around a little, he’d had to imagine dark and twisted things because who in their right mind would _ever_ want to be in a situation like this. A real-life horror-show, complete with blood and death and crazy hot psychos professing their undying love in a murder cabin while they fucked him next to a dress they’d made all for _him_.

And he was so into it. Fully seated as he was, filled by Eddie's thick cock, his reason clicked off and he knew _exactly_ what he wanted, and soon his feet dug into the ground to give him leverage to start moving his hips. Fully embedded, the tip of Eddie's cock kept _just_ brushing his prostate, tantalizing him with short brushes of intense pleasure and he wanted-he wanted to get _off_. _Now._ He wanted to come in this real-life horror and—

_If I survive this, I've really got to stop jerking off to horror games,_ he irrationally thought. He had a problem, a legit problem if this was _actually_ getting him off, because it _was_ , and God if he didn't love it. He was ashamed, but already this was the hottest thing he'd ever experienced. He shouldn't even be able to _feel_ this at all, he should be scared out of his mind. Too terrified to be anything other than placid. But jerking off to horror must've conditioned him somehow, that was the only thing that made sense.

Together he and Eddie found a rhythm, one that worked flawlessly between them and Waylon, he was _close_. He was so close, and he knew all it would take was Eddie's big, meaty hands to wrap around his defenseless cock and stroke, but it seemed like Eddie was ignoring it entirely. It might as well not have been there at all, and he was half-worried that if he tried to reach for it Eddie would either knock his hand away or commit some crazy violence upon it. But Waylon was on the brink of his orgasm, he could feel it and mentally scrambled for something to get him over the edge. _Anything._

But no matter what he thought of, it wasn’t enough. It wasn't working. Usually when he fantasized, the image in his mind was so clear. It was so easy. Videogame psychos _always_ got him over the edge. But even as he mentally reached for the tried and true Pyramid Head, it was Eddie Gluskin that filled his mind instead. And how could it not? Eddie was _real_ , and this wasn't a fantasy. A big man covered in blood who could easily kill him _was_ fucking his hole like he wanted to destroy it. It was real and Eddie kept _hitting_ his prostate and his cock ached so bad, God he was so close-so close!

"Eddie!" he begged, clinging to his groom so hard his nails dug in. He needed to come. He needed to come _,_ he just needed a little more. “Eddie, please—!”

"Come for me," Eddie said as his teeth dragged up along the column of Waylon’s neck to that spot that always drove him crazy right as the Groom gave one final, powerful thrust that made him see stars. "Give it to me, Bride!"

Waylon did.

This was an experience unlike anything he'd ever had because he’d _never_ come on command before, not even in his own fantasies. But it was more than that. He'd come without being touched. He hadn’t believed that was possible, but well? _Well._

Pleasure screamed through his body as he bucked and twitched so hard on Eddie's thick, spasming cock that the bigger man had to clamp down on Waylon to stop him from moving. Cum landed in hot streams across his chest as he felt the same shooting up within him as Eddie orgasmed just as hard. His voice was a cry lost in a sudden absence of sound as he was overwhelmed and lost. Cling to his groom as the pleasure kept coming and coming and _coming._

Waylon was left adrift now that the height of pleasure was leaving him bobbing in half-awareness after so much ... just so much. His vision doubled, his chest heaved, and every muscle was slack and near impossible to feel and control. If it wasn’t for Eddie holding him up against his chest he'd have flopped over, pathetic and vulnerable.

_That was intense,_ he thought with a quieter internal voice than he was used to. It was barely there, and to his confusions, the post-coital whatever the hell this was wasn't lifting like it should have by now. Instead Waylon was feeling … weaker, smaller, almost nauseous, and when he tried to swallow and shift, it was as if he was doing it from a long way away. Like his connection to his body was barely there. _Shit._

Whatever was happening, this _wasn't_ normal.

"H-hey, babe?" he said, eyelids fluttering as his vision continued to blur. It felt like something was building in him. Growing in him. Darkness was crowding into his vision and it was just ... it was all so much. Too much. Everywhere. "I feel ... weird."

"Shh, Darling," Eddie said softly while he caught his breath, holding Waylon like he was something precious. "I'm just ... filling you up ..."

And maybe that _was_ what was happening because all of this weakness, this distance from himself ... it was like something in Eddie was catalyzing something in him. Strengthening his own darkness. Filling him up and making it strong. It was like he was becoming something else. Losing substance. Becoming less _him_ and more something else.

Because he was.

Abruptly his vision sharpened, and it was as if he fit again and had found magnificent equilibrium. The thing growing in him was bigger now, bigger than he was – it was taking over. Pushing him down. Pushing him _out._ He was changing. Had changed. There was nothing he could do. He couldn’t fight it.

He was no longer Waylon Park.

_Oh_ , Waylon thought as darkness dragged him down for the Bride to take his place. _I guess I didn’t escape death either._

_No,_ the Bride replied as it consumed the final bit of the life and light that had been Waylon Park. _But you’ve been reborn._

And in the Groom’s arms, filled to the brim with the man who loved him — the man who _completed_ him – Waylon knew that, yes. That was right. At last, _this was right._ Before this he’d been ... well, he’d been nothing. A pathetic young man focused on computers and friends while secretly jerking off to murderers and wedding gowns and a future that wasn’t much more than that.

But now? _Oh_ , now, everything had changed. What did computers or friends matter when he was primordial now? How could he possibly be alone when he was so loved and _in love_ and wedded? All his life he’d been dreaming of this. A dress. A wedding. His Groom.

And at last, he’d gotten it all. He’d become the Bride.

With that realization the world brightened and crystalized and the darkness that had filled his vision cleared and jumped into sharp view. Purpose filled him, knowledge that he had been remade for something greater – for something _more_. Blessed with darkness and divine, monstrous purpose.

Blessed with the Groom.

Waylon sucked in a breath, feeling alive for the first time as he felt the Groom press gentle kisses to his neck and bare shoulder. Before, when he'd looked at Eddie Gluskin, he'd seen a monster. A threat. He'd seen a man that could and would kill him if he didn't make the right move, but now he knew the _truth_. This man was his other half. His counterpart. The Groom to the Bride.

And Waylon was not done with his wedding night.

Awakened and empowered, lust flowed through his veins again and it didn't matter that he'd only just come and it should be a while before his body was ready for more. He _wanted_ more.

And to his satisfaction, his body obeyed.

"Waylon," Eddie said, but Waylon didn't give Eddie the time to speak, not when he turned and shoved his groom down. Eddie gasped but Waylon had already turned to properly straddle him, grasping a slack cock that engorged immediately at his touch before lowering himself back on it.

It was like lightning shooting up his spine and Waylon enjoyed every moment of it, especially when Eddie shouted and groaned before throwing his head back. It was as if his groom didn’t know what to do and couldn't take another moment of pleasure.

Only Waylon would make sure he would.

Now that he was mounted, Waylon was going to _take,_ and the pace he set was brutal. He was going to milk his groom of everything he had now that Waylon _knew_ who he was. The first orgasm? That hardly counted. It was made entirely for his groom and his emergence, but this? This was the first he would have Eddie as the Bride, and he was going to _take it_ exactly as he pleased.

And he was not disappointed when his groom let him.

"D-darling," Eddie gasped, but Waylon hardly heard him. He was close again, sweat slicking his back, heat encouraging motion as he moved atop his groom's hips, riding the man below him hard enough he knew they'd both be so exquisitely sore. The wet slap of their bodies together was obscene. The sounds of their grunts and groans and cries echoed through the forest and all he could see was the flash of Eddie's eyes as they reflected in the dark. They stared at him, rolling in pleasure before inevitably finding their way back to his like he was the sun. The moon. Like he was _everything._

"Eddie," he said, working desperately to chase his pleasure just a little further. He threw his head back and clenched at his husband's chest until he felt liquid warmth build under his sharp nails. His dick felt like it was going to explode as it slapped and bobbed with every frantic thrust of his and Eddie's hips. "Please, I just-I just need a little more—"

A big hand suddenly dug into his hair, wrenching his head back, arching his body obscenely, and making his puckered, bitten nipples gleam in the dim light.

"Look at you," Eddie said, his voice gone dark and foreboding, filled with lust and insanity. "I thought I'd found the perfect little girl." The bigger man shoved himself up before taking Waylon’s hips and holding them down. Waylon was stuck impaled upon Eddie’s lap, unable to do much more than shift and clench. Eddie's teeth brushed his exposed neck and Waylon shivered and moaned because everything was just-it was just perfect. It really was. He stared at Eddie, waiting, enduring, _living_ or the way his free hand petted at his chest like he was massaging breasts, pinching his nipples brutally enough to make him groan and tremble with need.

"But it looks like, deep down," Eddie breathed into his ear before he reached low. "What I really got was a _slut_."

Eddie's massive hand abruptly wrapped around Waylon's dick, stroked him, squeezed him in one final, brutal stroke and Waylon lost it. His orgasm crested, his body fell apart and pleasure mixed with pain perfectly as he screamed.

But he didn’t let it sweep him away. Instead he rode the wave, harnessed it and shoved Eddie back down as he dug his hand into Eddie’s dark hair and squeezed his groom’s cock tight within him. “You got the whole package, babe.” He bared his teeth and bore down with everything he had. “You got the _Bride_.”

If he’d screamed, Eddie Gluskin cried louder as he came hard a second time, filling Waylon up and ensuring that everyone and everything knew that they were one now. A part of each other. They were real and they were eternal.

They were the Bride and the Groom.

And they were together, at long last.

* * *

**BELOW**

Cheers rang out across the room and bottles of champagne were popped open because, without a _doubt_ this time, the world had been saved.

And Nathan's quick thinking had ensured it.

"This was your win," Martin said as he clapped him on the back where he still hadn't gotten up from his seat, his legs still shaking from the close call they'd all just endured together. He could hardly believe it, but it was true. The evidence was all around him. His hair was a mess, his shirt was sticking to him from anxiety sweat, his voice was hoarse from calling out plays and commands that had been executed to a tee, and now that it was over, everyone looked like they were ready to celebrate like they'd all won the goddamned lottery.

"This was a group effort," he finally said as he leaned back in his seat, smiling wide with relief even as the newly married Gluskins continued to engage in very loud, very aggressive coital bliss on the big screen. "I couldn't have done it without you guys. Tina, excellent work with the atmospherics. The rush order on that outdoor wedding chapel? Fireflies at night? Clear sky and full moon? _Perfection._ "

"Thanks, Nate," Tina said, dabbing her eyes.

"And George! The glitter? The roses?” Nathan shook his head and smiled. “Inspired. If Gluskin wasn't already smitten with Park, turning him into the most beautiful horror bride was a deal-clincher."

"What can I say?" George said as he clung to Alice in the back. "I’m a sucker for romance."

"Brilliant. Just brilliant. And Marty?" Nathan said, giving his right-hand man a big grin. "Some of your best work yet keeping Park distracted and on task. I'm putting you in for an award."

"That means so much coming from you Nate," Martin said, lips tight as he held back emotions. "I just ... we may have done the work, but it was your leadership that saved the world today."

He started clapping and then everyone in the room joined in, and it was so loud, so enthusiastic as people from other departments throughout the facility entered and joined in. It was a standing ovation, truly the crowning glory to his long years in service to their most esteemed organization. It was so loud it cut out the passionate moaning of the newlywed monsters in the background. As he stared at them all he could hardly believe it. Never in all his time working here had he believed something so _incredible_ would happen.

The rise of a new horror.

Nathan couldn't stop the massive grin that pulled over his face, and although he didn't know how he was going to explain it to upper management – and God, the paperwork he was going to have to send to Todd since the Groom would have to undergo some extensive reclassification now that he had a Bride – all he knew for certain was this. That as much as he and his team had worked hard to save the world, _he_ wasn't the real MVP today.

He looked at the monitor, and what he saw was something beautiful and horrible, a creature with glowing eyes and a sensual smirk that had almost singlehandedly destroyed the world before saving it by transcending.

"Thank you all. It means a lot to me. But we all know that while we helped make it happen, the real congratulations goes to our star." Nathan grabbed his glass and lifted it in a toast. "Waylon Park, you little bastard, thank you for saving the world. To the Bride!"

"To the Bride!" everyone toasted back, loudly, and relieved that there was another year to come. And it really was all thanks to Waylon Park. Waylon Gluskin now.

It was all thanks to the Bride.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *Sighs happily* Awww love. Aren't the Gluskins so cute together? Now they're married, the world is saved, and we've got ourselves a dark happily ever after.
> 
> But I'm not quite done. The Bride hasn't made his full transformation just yet. See you tomorrow ;]


	6. The Bride

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And here we are my friends. The end. It really has been a pleasure sharing this story with you all, and I've enjoyed and appreciated all the comments and kudos. Again, special thanks to reapersun who is wonderful and created the comics that inspired this piece. It's been a blast :] 
> 
> Thanks for coming along on the ride and I hope you enjoy!

The Bride stood before the Groom, back straight and posture perfect as Eddie added his final touches.

Now that the ritual was over, the night had ended, and they had a year to wait out, Eddie shrouded Waylon in the remains of his wedding gown. They’d been ... aggressive in their lovemaking, and while the dress was torn and a little dirty now, Waylon couldn’t even look at the disgusting clothing he’d worn when he’d arrived at the cabin. Denim. Cotton. Pants.

“I _will not_ have you indecent in public,” Eddie growled before they’d left the forest. Then his steam had cooled. “But I’ve nothing else to clothe you in.”

Waylon had traced his groom’s jawline, catching his attention. “What makes you think I’d ever want to wear anything other than the first gift you gave me?”

If it hadn’t been for the hypnotic pull drawing them underground, Waylon would’ve let Eddie fuck him through the dawn and well into the night again. They were newlyweds after all. He didn’t want to walk straight for a week.

Unfortunately whatever this strange new dark force that had grown in him was, it bound him and Eddie both in ways he hadn’t been bound when he was human. They had to go, newlyweds or not. Their job was done, and it was time for them to retreat back to the darkness.

But as he’d pulled his wedding dress on, torn and falling off, Eddie had crowded close behind him, teeth brushing his neck as he spoke. Heat and desire flooded Waylon’s body when Eddie said, “Then I’ll make sure you never take it off again.”

And Waylon was elated that his groom kept his word.

Their glass room was solid and unbreakable but if asked politely, whoever or whatever kept them provided requests if they weren’t too extreme. Eddie had asked for beautiful white ribbon and a sewing needle and thread. Waylon wanted lube.

“They never give lube,” Eddie had sighed when their items were delivered.

Waylon had smirked as he lifted the small bottle and card that offered them congratulations on their marriage. “Maybe for newlyweds they do.”

At the sight of it, he was sure Eddie would take him then and there for every monster around to see, but he thrilled when his groom showed incredible self-restraint. Again Eddie crowded close, needle and thread in hand as he manipulated Waylon’s body before him, taking hold of the fabric and getting to work. With the careful eye of an experienced tailor, Waylon watched as Eddie stitched gaping holes, tore more length off the bottom so his feet and lower legs were freer to move. Eddie tightened the bodice, making Waylon feel glorious and supported as it held his torso in satin delight.

“Hold it there,” Eddie breathed against Waylon’s ear as he readied the needle and ribbon. Insanity made his eyes glow that much brighter as he stared at Waylon’s exposed back. “You’ll be my masterpiece.”

Waylon glanced over his shoulder coyly, heat in his eyes. “Are you done with the foreplay, babe?”

Eddie’s chest heaved, but when the needle threaded the ribbon under Waylon’s skin at the base of his spine before crisscrossing upward, cinching the dress to his form tight and even, his strong fingers never hesitated. They were precise and sure, a master’s focus and skill at work, and Waylon relished the sensation of becoming one with his dress. Of being stitched into it, the sterling white satin ribbon stretching below his skin and over his spine. With each painful, pleasurable stitch, he knew the ribbon would never come out. This was him. This was right.

He would _never_ be anything but the Bride ever again.

With tender care Eddie finished just below the nape of Waylon’s neck, tinkering with what felt like the most precious bow. Waylon hadn’t made a move the entire time, but now that Eddie was done he drew his thick digits down the length of Waylon’s newly designed back. He let out a shuddering breath at the tender caress.

“Is it,” Waylon started, heart in his throat and anxious to know. “Does it look good?”

“Darling,” Eddie said before leaning forward to place a tender kiss on the high bone of his nape, right above the bow. “You’re divine.”

Like this, permanently dressed in the wedding gown his groom had made him, praised by the husband he now had, Waylon _felt_ divine. He felt pure.

With all the sensuality he had, he turned and slipped his arms around Eddie’s neck, shamelessly pressing them groin to groin. Waylon was pleased to feel the strong ridge of Eddie's cock ready for him and fire flared in his groom’s eyes as Waylon ground them together. Big hands tugged and soon they were on the floor, Waylon straddled pleasingly across the Groom’s strong hips. With the skirt of his dress keeping their actions from the eyes of the other nightmares and creatures around them, Waylon grinned. He leaned back and grabbed the lube, luxuriating in the sting and pull of the ribbon along the length of his back.

"Beautiful," Eddie sighed as Waylon leaned forward again so he could drop the lube in the Groom's hand before kissing a line to his ear.

"Fill me up, Eddie," he whispered, need flaring in his body when he felt Eddie stiffen beneath him. "Come on, babe, I need you so bad."

"Insatiable," his husband said, though his voice had dropped to a low growl Waylon felt to his core. Big hands dug into Waylon's body hard enough to leave delightful bruises. " _Minx_."

"You love it," Waylon said with a grin as he closed his eyes and began grinding down. "Are you going to make me do all the work, or—?"

With a heave, Eddie threw him on his back and spread his legs obscenely while making quick work of his fly.

"That mouth of yours, Darling." The breath heaved out of Waylon as Eddie's bulk trapped him against the ground. His eyes flashed silver on black and Waylon smiled, heart racing as Eddie nipped at that electric spot just behind his ear. "I love it."

A hand was between his legs, slick with lube, and Waylon hissed and throbbed as a finger, then two, then three pressed quickly into him, eased by the earlier passage of the thick cock Waylon wanted _right now._

He arched, searching for more, needing _so_ much more, and he was learning that his beloved Groom was tailor-made to give him exactly what he craved. Like this, hot and wanting, Waylon didn’t want it gentle and easy. He wanted it hard and fast. He wanted to feel everything and soon those fingers had worked him open just enough so the head of Eddie’s dick was at his hole, then it was in, and he was filled, _so_ filled—!

Reflexively his legs wrapped around Eddie’s waist and he groaned and enjoyed the thickness and sublime burn. Basked in the way everything seemed to light up along his spine from the stinging bliss of his ribbons.

“Yes,” he encouraged as Eddie moved faster. Harder. “Eddie, yes!”

“You’re so-so tight, Waylon,” Eddie groaned as he nipped at Waylon’s lips with his teeth. “So perfect.”

Even in the semi-darkness they and all the monsters were kept in, out of the corner of Waylon’s eyes he could see them. Some watched with interest, and some with envy. Some refused to look or didn’t even care. Either way, it didn’t matter. _They_ didn’t matter. The only ones who did were here in this glass room. Everyone and everything else? They didn’t even exist in his world. Why should they?

Until the end of time, it was him and Eddie. The Bride and the Groom. Waylon held Eddie’s cheek lovingly while the bigger man tried to pound him through the floor.

“My Groom,” he breathed, clenching down tight. “Fill me up.”

It was too much for Eddie. Waylon didn’t know if it was the submission or the ownership, but whatever he’d said took Eddie over so hard he thrust into Waylon _just right_. Eddie came in him, thickening, spilling hot seed deep into his body and it was all just too much and everything Waylon wanted. Again, unbelievably, he was coming without being touched. His dick erupted with cum, staining his dress and Eddie’s pants but he couldn’t be bothered to care when butterscotch pleasure was sliding like decadent ripples throughout every atom of his being. _This_ was right. A union between him and Eddie.

“My Bride,” Eddie whispered, holding him like a treasure as he came down from his orgasmic high. “I’m so _glad_ I found you at last.”

“You found me,” Waylon agreed, a smile of pure love on his lips, one to match his husband’s. “We’ll be together. Forever.”

Because it was all he wanted, he realized. Them, together like this, forever. And yes, sure, he also had a strong desire to murder, and perhaps he was more monster than anything else, sometimes that was the price of love. But he’d found his love and he’d found his place. He would keep it. He wouldn’t _dare_ let anyone take this from him. Because Eddie? His Eddie? He was a good man. The best man. He’d found him after all. Eddie had _freed_ him.

But a terrible thought slid into Waylon’s mind. What if another Virgin did the same? What if they realized what a treasure Eddie was, and tried to take the Groom from him?

Wrath swarmed through Waylon’s body like wasps, and the pleasure he’d enjoyed now mixed with a new hunger for bloodshed he’d never known existed within him before. But the mere thought that someone might take away _his_ Eddie, tempt his gentle soul?

“We belong together. I’ll never let you go.” Waylon’s eyes bored into Eddie’s. “And I won’t ever let some-some _homewrecker_ take you from me, Eddie.” He dug his nails into the sides of Eddie’s undercut hard enough he felt blood and saw his husband’s eyes ignite. “You’re _mine_.”

“Forever and always, Darling,” Eddie promised, taking Waylon’s hands in his to bring them to his lips and kissed each scuffed knuckle. “I’m never letting you go.”

“I’ll kill anyone who tries, babe,” Waylon promised with all his heart, pressing close, relishing the way the satin stroked his skin and made him feel decadent and powerful.

“Perfect,” Eddie said before his grip tightened and insanity sparked in his glowing gaze. “You’re perfect.”

And with eyes filled with the same spark of insanity, the same terrible love and violent promise of carnage to anyone stupid enough to get between them, Waylon smiled and couldn’t imagine his life any other way.


End file.
